Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.
This is my first foray into the HP-verse. It will be an AU time-travel story. Here, Harry took after his mother and father academically and put more effort into his education and practice than his OG canon self. This story will avoid any bashing.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Nextdooreditor and Ashestodust. Cheers to nicknm, who was the one who tossed this idea to me, and after quite a lot of reworking on my part, here we are.
2nd of May, 1998
Harry was lying face down on the carpet, mind racing madly. He had thought that he was going to see the secret to victory in that pensive. And he did, just not in the way he'd expected.
The dreams of creating his own cosy little family, his plan to travel the world and see its wonders... gone. He would never enjoy the taste of treacle tart or feel the wind blowing on his face as he rode a broom ever again.
Harry was never supposed to survive. What did he work and fight so hard for? Years of relentless training and studying had been wasted in hopes of defeating his parent's murderer by his own hand. And now, as one of the last links that were anchoring Voldemort to the mortal plane, he had to die. His heart was pounding in his chest and Harry had a bitter taste in his mouth.
He had never contemplated death much. His will to live was always way greater than his fear of death. Yet now, faced with the inevitability of dying, Harry could feel all his joys and sorrows slipping away in equal measure. He tried to lift himself from the floor, but what little strength he had slipped away too. He could not rise up. Harry felt as though the weight of the world was crushing him to the floor, and started shaking.
The headmaster's betrayal stung the hardest. Was his purpose always to just… perish before he even got to live? He realised then, it was never about him but rather about the prophecy and ending Tom Riddle. Were all those words of wisdom and advice just given to better prepare Harry for his future sacrifice? Was the grandfatherly demeanour just a masterful facade crafted for the sole intention of deceiving him?
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
The words of the headmaster rang in his head. Burning fury welled up in his gut.
How dare he?!
How dare Dumbledore have the nerve to tell him straight-faced and standing tall, staring him down without a care in the world, when his mind swam with the knowledge that Harry was going to die?!
But the headmaster never truly hurt anyone. And would Harry even be here if it wasn't for his meddling mentor? His rage subsided. No, Dumbledore was not bad, nor was he evil.
He felt just as foolish as he was angry. Was it really betrayal to spare a child from the knowledge that he had to die? Harry finally deflated like a balloon. The headmaster gave him the task to hunt down the Horcruxes and, at the finish line, he was supposed to die to complete it. Why waste other people's lives in the process, when Harry's was already forfeit? Dumbledore had observed him over the years and knew he would not back down even if it meant his death. And the damned headmaster was right. Harry would not turn away when he had gotten so far.
But, he had failed. Not only would he have to die, but by the end of it, Voldemort would remain immortal. The snake was still alive. For good or for bad, Dumbledore had encouraged him to tell Ron and Hermione about the Horcruxes, so they could finish the task should Harry fall before he managed to complete his quest.
He half-heartedly attempted to lift himself from the carpet. But, his trembling limbs betrayed him once again. They felt as though they were made of lead. He was tired. So very tired. Especially after a year on the run, surrounded by cold and hunger, worry and fear. And just this day alone had already been full of fighting and death. A thought wormed itself into his head. If only he could stay here and fade out of existence. But he was not one to give up. Harry angrily grit his teeth. No more running. He was not a coward. Yes, he would die, but he would face death the way he lived – bravely, with a wand in hand. Even if he had to die, he was going to make sure his death meant something!
His friends, his teachers, even his rivals - they would know. He might fall today, whether through the Killing Curse or by Fiendyre, Cutting Curse or explosion; they would know his name.
He slapped himself hard and, with tremendous effort, managed to stand up, despite his shaking legs. Harry took deep, slow breaths, and as determination filled him once again, so did the strength in his limbs return.
He glanced at the battered golden watch he had received from Mrs Weasley for his seventeenth birthday. Half of the allotted hour had run out already.
He wondered how Mrs Weasley would feel after he died but quickly stopped himself. If he thought about the people he cared about, it'd make his decision all the more difficult.
With the invisibility cloak covering him, he quickly descended through the floors. The sight of students carrying the corpses of people he knew made his insides twist with anger and guilt. Thinking about Ron and Hermione made him feel even heavier. How could he even tell them that he had to die? Were they even alive anymore? Harry banished the morbid thought quickly. Ron and Hermione always survived, no matter what. And they would not allow Harry to walk straight into his death.
Yet, if Voldemort won here, all the resistance against him would be gone. His death had to come now, and there was no use delaying it. Otherwise, the immortal Dark Lord would eventually breach Hogwarts and slaughter its defenders. Riddle never forgave those who opposed him. Harry knew that if he tried to say goodbye to his friends, he would lose what little determination he had mustered. So, he trudged on, trying not to look at the grim, yet familiar faces surrounding him.
As he passed Hagrid's hut, he couldn't help but remember all those visits to the jolly half-giant. The dark windows of the hut made him idly wonder where Hagrid was. Once Harry entered the Forbidden Forest, he could feel the chill of the dementors' presence. His limbs started to tremble again, and he knew he could not summon happy enough memories or feelings to create a corporeal Patronus. It seemed that the foul wraiths had not yet noticed him, though. It was weird, especially since they had always been drawn to him. But, he would not look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not now. As he was trudging onward, Harry remembered the snitch Dumbledore had willed to him and the motto 'I open at close'.
His thoughts wandered to his first Quidditch game and how he had caught the snitch with his mouth...
As the realisation set in, Harry pressed the golden ball to his mouth. It broke open, revealing the destroyed ring Horcrux encrusted with the resurrection stone. He snorted bitterly, not feeling too surprised. Another layer of insurance, added by Albus Dumbledore. Harry vividly recalled the tale of the second brother who committed suicide after speaking to his lost love. Fitting that he would gain the stone when he was more or less about to follow the same fate. He had so many questions towards his parents and godfather. And yet, it did not matter. He would meet all of them soon enough. Harry dropped it to the forest floor and soldiered on.
"Someone's there," a rough whisper was heard nearby. "He's got an invisibility cloak. Could it be?"
Harry stilled as two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree. As their wands lit up, he recognised Dolohov and Yaxley and his grip on Malfoy's wand tightened. If he would die anyway, he might as well help those that still lived on after his death.
"Definitely heard something," said Yaxley. "Animal, I reckon?"
The duo were less than two metres from Harry and were facing away from him. Filled with decisiveness, he brandished his wand.
Pumping his magic through Draco's wand, he extended it out of the invisibility cloak. Harry mustered all of his fury and aimed at Dolohov first, as he was the more dangerous opponent.
'Ignis Sectum'
He jabbed twice, casting two angry, searing red crescents from the tip of his wand. Dolohov tried ducking and turning, but the spell hit him just beneath the eyes. Harry felt bile rising in his throat as the Death Eater crumbled on the ground, with his brain, skull, and blood splattering on the nearby leaves and tree roots. For a short moment, Harry watched with morbid fascination as the freezing evening air was quickly filled with rising smoke from the remains on the ground. That moment of hesitation almost cost him, though, as Yaxley had managed to dodge the second spell and raise his wand.
Harry swished his wand, and the warning sparks were snuffed out before they could be launched into the sky. With a flick, he transfigured the nearby roots to hold Yaxley's legs, who, in return, sent a sickly yellow spell his way. Harry sidestepped it and angrily retaliated with another cutter.
With his legs bound, Harry's opponent panicked and barely managed to put up a Protego in time. The crimson crescent hissed through the air and tore through the shield as if it was paper, and Yaxley's head rolled down near Dolohov's mangled corpse.
Harry was heaving. His heart was beating like a drum, and he felt his limbs go heavy as the adrenaline wore off. He almost made a fatal mistake. If one of them had shouted, or if the sparks were shot in the air successfully, his location would have been exposed. He slowly looked around, as he was trying to regain his bearing.
The aftermath made his stomach churn. He tried holding it in, but couldn't. Harry ended up kneeling and emptying his stomach right next to the corpses. Channelling his rage into the spells always made him feel emptiness afterwards, and the feeling of emptiness exacerbated his nausea. Could he truly kill more people in such a way?
He vividly recalled the corpses of his fellow students being carried in the Great Hall. It was not a sight he could ever forget, as it was seared deep into his mind. It took him a few moments to get up again and steel himself once more. Every Death Eater he killed now, was one Death Eater less that his friends in Hogwarts would have to face. He couldn't help but admire the power and brutal efficiency of this spell. A spell he had spent a few months creating while on the run. Admittedly, more magic was channelled than necessary, but not only had his cutting curse cleaved through bone and flesh effortlessly, it had cleanly sliced through a third of the thick tree trunk behind.
His cloak had fallen off in the scuffle, so Harry gingerly covered himself again and headed in the direction the Death Eaters had come from. A few minutes later, he finally saw a light. Before Harry stood a clearing with a bonfire lit in the middle of it. Voldemort and his followers had gathered around the roaring flames.
Most wore their masks, while some had discarded them. Two giants could be seen on the outskirts of the group. Nagini was coiled near the Dark Lord's feet. But Harry doubted he could take her out without going through Voldemort first. He might as well try, though; it was not as if he had anything left to lose at this point.
Everyone was deathly silent in the clearing, and only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Faces were filled with apprehension, anger, and even anticipation.
"Dolohov and Yaxley should have returned by now," Bellatrix's voice rasped in Harry's ears and made his insides twist with fury. Even two years after his godfather's death, he could only feel uncontrollable anger when seeing her. All plans in his head were forgotten.
His wand slipped outside the cloak, and he channelled all his rage into a silent Ignis Sectum. Voldemort instantly raised the Elder wand, and Bellatrix was simply pushed out of the way of the spell that would have cleaved her in two. Harry inwardly fumed at this missed chance. He started moving around erratically, holding the cloak in place with one hand. With the other, he was flinging cutting and piercing curses as fast as he could into the surroundings. Some of his spells hit their marks as screams of pain could be heard. He tried hitting Nagini, but the snake slithered away too fast, and he could not aim properly.
"He's here under that invisibility cloak of his!" a furious voice yelled while people were ducking around, casting blindly in retaliation and panic. Chaos engulfed the clearing, and spellfire was flying all over the place. As he kept moving, a few spells came close to Harry, but most of them harmlessly sailed past him or even hit some of their casters' comrades.
"Accio cloak." Voldemort's cold voice sent shivers down his spine. Harry gripped his cloak with both hands, but no pull ever came.
The dark lord frowned and simply twisted the Elder wand, causing a wave of water to wash over the surroundings. While Harry was invisible, the droplets of water now covering his cloak were not.
With another flick of Voldemort's wrist, a smouldering sickly red flame in the form of a basilisk formed quickly and lunged directly towards Harry's location. He tried to run from it, but his limbs felt like lead and the fire was fast approaching. He gritted his teeth and willed his heavy hand to raise once more.
"Protego Maxima!"
Harry poured everything into the shield. For a quick moment, he regretted not putting in the time to create his own defensive spell. The translucent shield held for little more than two heartbeats before it broke.
The last thing he saw was the fiery maw rapidly closing in on him, and then searing darkness took him.
"Get up, boy! Breakfast is ready," Harry groaned at the shrill voice. A voice he was not supposed to hear ever again. Did he somehow end up in hell? Was he going to be tormented by his relatives even in the afterlife?
He groggily reached for his glasses. There was a taste of ash in his mouth. Moving his limbs felt incredibly awkward and tiresome. After tiredly rubbing his face, he placed his glasses on and opened his eyes, only to be met with one giant botched blur.
"Bloody hell," he muttered and took his glasses off. Just as he was about to clean them with his sleeve, he realised that everything was crystal clear. Harry blinked a few times. Confused, he pinched his hand and then promptly froze.
In disbelief, he looked down at his thin and small arm. His mind felt completely muddled. As if in a dream, he automatically put on some of the oversized clothes he found in the small drawer in the corner, and his feet walked him to the bathroom.
From the mirror above the sink, a small, scrawny boy with unruly hair and piercing green eyes blinked. Dread began to twist his insides and he felt bile rising up. Did he have to go through all of it over again just to die in the end? Was this some sort of cruel punishment for failing to defeat the Dark lord?
Just as despair was overtaking him, he noticed that something was not quite right with his reflection. Where was his scar? He stared flabbergasted at the mirror as he carefully inspected his face, which was completely clear of blemishes. After squinting his eyes for half a minute, he barely managed to see it. The lightning bolt was still there. But, it was so faded, small, and thin that even with his apparently sharper vision, he would have missed it had he not looked for it carefully.
Harry slowly ran a finger over the place where a shard of Voldemort's soul had resided and tormented him for the last few years. It did not feel any different from the rest of his face. No pain, no itching, no irritation.
Happiness filled him for a brief moment.
Terrible things happen to people who meddle with time.
At the oddly familiar voice, his joy was quickly replaced by terror. He had thought that this was a second chance for him. A second chance, where he is not a Horcrux and gets to live, really live. But when have good things ever happened to him?
But was this even time travel? He was not in his original body, and things were different. For one, he no longer needed glasses.
Harry gritted his teeth. No, things could not be worse than the last time. The only thing left to determine was how far back he was thrown in time.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he needed food— apparently, it was breakfast time. After splashing his face with cold water, he quickly headed downstairs towards the kitchen.
Sitting at the head of the table, Vernon was already hidden behind the morning newspaper. Next to him, Petunia was sipping a cup of tea, lost in thought. Harry quickly sat down on the nearest empty chair and discreetly looked at the date on the newspaper from the corner of his eye. Twenty-fourth of July, 1991.
His cousin was loudly munching on the last pieces of bacon. Three toasts were left on a big plate in the middle of the table, and a still very young and very fat Dudley quickly grabbed the bigger two, leaving the smallest one for Harry.
Beggars can't be choosers, so Harry quickly snatched the last and devoured it, before his cousin decided to stuff himself some more. He had forgotten how young Dudley was so fat that he almost looked like a big, human-sized ball. If either his aunt or uncle noticed the lack of glasses upon his face, they did not say a word. And Dudley was not exactly the brightest tool in the shed. Harry would not even be surprised if they never become aware of the difference, as his relatives only paid him the minimum possible attention in order to keep him in line and nothing more. Soon after breakfast was finished and Dudley was playing with his new Smeltings stick, the click of the mailslot was heard as well as the soft thud of the mail hitting the floor.
"Get the mail, Dudley," Vernon grunted without averting eyes from his precious paper.
"Make Harry get it."
Harry carefully got up and headed towards the door without saying a word. He had no desire to trade barbs with his relatives. Not when he was weak, small and without a wand. Three things lay on the doormat. A postcard from his uncle's horrid sister, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter adorned by a very familiar crest. Harry's heartbeat sped up, and remembering what had happened the last time he was supposed to receive that particular letter, he quickly folded it in two and shoved it inside his oversized pocket.
He handed the rest to Vernon and headed towards his room.
"Don't forget that you have to weed the garden today, boy!" his aunt's high-pitched voice followed him as he was climbing up the stairs.
Just as he entered the room, he stilled. Before the Hogwarts letter arrived, the Dursleys had been content to allow him to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, not in a room of any sort. Not that he'd ever complain about not sleeping in the cupboard. Was this a result of accidentally messing up with time? If his accommodation in the Dursley's house was different, what else had changed?
Deciding to think on this more later, he carefully pulled out the letter from his pocket. Just as he was about to open the letter, he glanced at the address and froze.
Mr. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom
6 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Author's endnote: I will not focus on this story until I finish the Dragonwolf.