Chapter 1 - Calm
Golden sunlight crept through the curtains of the Gryffindor dormitory, gradually illuminating the room where its occupants slumbered, blissfully unaware of the world beyond their dreams. Well, most of them, at least. Suddenly, two boys twitched in their beds before snapping upright so quickly they could have sworn they heard their spines crack.
Harry and Neville locked eyes, taking in each other's appearance, their own bodies, and their surroundings. In a heartbeat, they leapt from their beds and collided in a fierce embrace. Tears of relief and joy, along with a torrent of unspoken emotions, streamed down their faces as they clung to one another.
"We did it, Nev! We really did it!" Harry whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. Neville nodded silently, overwhelmed by the same flood of feelings coursing through him.
A subtle clearing of a throat brought them crashing back to reality. Breaking apart, they turned to face the source of the interruption. Seamus Finnigan stood there, eyebrows raised, wearing an expression caught between amusement and bewilderment.
"I didn't know you two swung that way," Seamus remarked uncertainly, his Irish lilt more pronounced in his confusion.
Harry and Neville's eyebrows shot up to their hairlines, momentarily stunned by the implication.
"You've got it all wrong, Seamus," Neville explained hastily, his mind racing to concoct a plausible excuse. "I've got a girl I'm pining for, someone I'd follow to the ends of the earth. Harry here was just happy for me, that's all." He deliberately avoided mentioning any names, knowing that in this new timeline, many things could be different.
Seamus nodded, clearly unconvinced. Harry fixed him with an unimpressed stare, causing their dormmate to retreat to his own bed after a few moments. "Whatever you say, lads," Seamus murmured before cracking a mischievous grin. "Though I'm pretty sure more than a few girls would be thrilled to have a go with Harry. They might not be too pleased if Neville stole their beloved Boy-Who-Lived away." He snickered at his own joke, oblivious to the pallor that had overtaken his dormmates' faces.
"Seamus," Harry strained out, a note of horror creeping into his voice, "please tell me what today's date is."
Seamus looked back at him as if Harry had finally cracked under the pressure of the upcoming tournament announcement. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of how to respond. Finally, he settled on an answer. "October 30th? You know, the day they're announcing the Triwizard Champions?"
The time-travelers turned to one another, their expressions sickened with the realization of their miscalculation.
"We're bloody well fucked, aren't we?" Neville muttered, causing Seamus to gape in shock at the uncharacteristic profanity.
"Yes," Harry replied grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, we are."
As Harry and Neville made their way to the Great Hall, the full weight of their situation crashed down upon them. Familiar faces surrounded them, each one a bittersweet reminder of what they had lost—and what they now had the chance to save.
The Great Hall buzzed with an electric excitement that neither Harry nor Neville had felt in years. Students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang mingled at the tables, their chatter a cacophony of different languages and accents.
Harry's breath caught in his throat as he saw Hermione, her bushy hair framing her face as she pored over a thick tome while absentmindedly buttering her toast. The sight of her, alive and well, sent a jolt through his system. Memories of her brilliance, her unwavering loyalty, and her final moments in Oslo flooded his mind.
Beside him, Neville stiffened as his gaze fell upon Ginny Weasley, chatting animatedly with a group of Beauxbatons students. The redhead's laughter echoed across the table, a sound that had become all too rare in their original timeline. Neville cast a sidelong glance at Harry, noting the complex mix of emotions playing across his friend's face.
"Alright there, mate?" Ron's voice cut through their reverie, his mouth full of bacon as he addressed Harry. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Harry swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Just... didn't sleep well," he managed, avoiding Ron's eyes. The irony of his words wasn't lost on him—he had, in fact, slept better than he had in years, free from the nightmares that had plagued him in their original future.
As they took their seats, Professor McGonagall swept past their table, her emerald robes billowing behind her. Neville's hand trembled slightly as he reached for a glass of pumpkin juice, the image of McGonagall's last stand at Hogwarts flashing before his eyes.
"Mr. Longbottom," McGonagall's crisp voice addressed him, "I trust you're prepared for today's Transfiguration lesson? Your last essay showed marked improvement."
Neville nodded mutely, unable to trust his voice. As McGonagall moved on, he exchanged a loaded glance with Harry. The sheer normalcy of the moment—McGonagall's stern but encouraging demeanor, the buzz of conversation in the Great Hall, the smell of breakfast—was almost overwhelming.
Harry leaned in close, whispering so only Neville could hear. "We can do this, Nev. We have to."
Neville nodded, squaring his shoulders. "For them," he murmured back, his eyes sweeping across the Hall, taking in all the faces of those they had lost—and those they were determined to save.
As breakfast continued around them, Harry and Neville sat in contemplative silence, each grappling with the enormous responsibility they now bore. The laughter of their classmates and visiting students, once a source of comfort, now served as a poignant reminder of the innocence they had lost and the future they had to protect.
At the Ravenclaw table, a group of Beauxbatons students led by Fleur Delacour were engaged in an animated discussion about the upcoming champion selection. Their silvery laughter carried across the Hall, drawing admiring glances from many Hogwarts students.
Near the entrance, Viktor Krum sat with his Durmstrang classmates, his surly expression a stark contrast to the excitement around him. Several girls from various houses kept stealing glances at the famous Quidditch player, giggling amongst themselves.
With each passing moment, Harry and Neville's resolve strengthened. They had been given a second chance, and they would not waste it. The road ahead would be difficult, fraught with challenges and hard decisions, but as Harry met Neville's gaze across the table, he knew they were ready. This time, they would change the future—no matter the cost.
As Harry and Neville grappled with their new reality, an unexpected scene unfolded at the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy strode into the Great Hall, his expression a curious blend of annoyance, calculation, and an unexpected hint of joy. He gave Harry and Neville a discreet nod before taking a seat across from a second-year Slytherin girl. The move raised eyebrows throughout the hall, including those of Harry and Neville, before they realized the girl's identity.
Astoria Mal- No, Astoria Greengrass. Draco's future wife. Though Draco's back was turned to the Gryffindor pair, they could easily imagine the expression on their friend's face: that wistful look in his eyes accompanied by a slight smile, the same one they had seen countless times as he gazed at Astoria's portrait after her passing.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Astoria asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Draco shrugged nonchalantly as he plucked an apple from one of the baskets on the Slytherin table. Those within earshot turned their heads, eager to know what had prompted the notoriously arrogant boy to sit away from his usual cronies.
"Well, there isn't any claim on this particular spot, is there?" Draco answered, arching an eyebrow. "As... tolerable as Crabbe and Goyle can be, they have certain tendencies from which I occasionally need a respite," he added with a shrug. Several nearby students choked on their food and drinks, taken aback by the unexpected kindness and respect with which he had addressed his usual lackeys. "And I've heard that you're something of an up-and-coming prodigy in Charms and Potions. I thought I might make your acquaintance, perhaps even strike up a friendship," Draco finished with a small, genuine smile.
Astoria's cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. She knew enough about the blonde across from her, both from her sister's accounts and her own observations. Arrogant, selfish, cruel, a bully, narcissistic - that was the prevailing opinion among the student body. Yet none of those traits were evident in the teen before her now. He had spoken softly, kindly, and had complimented someone other than his father. Either Draco had matured overnight - which seemed highly improbable - or she was dreaming.
"I heard about your examination grades yesterday," Draco continued, recalling something Astoria had shared with him in the future. She had been labeled a bookworm, a title she despised. Her indoor tendencies weren't by choice; her body simply couldn't handle outdoor activities without risking severe consequences. "I can count on one hand the number of people from our year who ever secured an Outstanding in Potions during their second year. You should be proud of yourself. You're on par with the Brightest Witch of Our Age."
Astoria's eyebrow arched questioningly, a spark of anger igniting in her eyes. "Are you trying to flirt with me, or are you angling for a chance with my sister?" she asked, her voice tight with irritation. Draco winced internally at his misstep. "Because one moment you're complimenting me, and the next you're flattering my sister."
Draco shook his head slightly. "Neither, actually. I simply wanted to congratulate you on your impressive grades. It's no small feat, especially given Professor Snape's exacting standards. And to address your second question, while Daphne may be among the brightest, she doesn't hold a candle to Hermione Granger," he answered with a small smile.
Several Ravenclaws and Slytherins within earshot choked violently on their drinks. Astoria's jaw dropped, and others stared at Draco as if he had spontaneously grown an extra head or two. Astoria was now absolutely certain that this must be a dream. There was no other explanation for Draco 'My-Father-Will-Hear-About-This' Malfoy complimenting Hermione Granger.
Draco glanced around, suddenly aware of the startled gazes fixed upon him. Realizing the impact of his words, he quickly attempted to salvage his reputation. "Though she's still a filthy Mudblood!" he snarled, injecting as much faux anger into his voice as he could muster.
From across the Hall, Harry and Neville observed the spectrum of reactions at the Slytherin table, both wondering what game Draco was playing and how it would unfold in this new timeline they had created.
As the Great Hall began to empty, students hurrying off to their first classes of the day, Harry and Neville remained seated, the weight of their knowledge and the enormity of their task settling heavily upon their shoulders. The Triwizard Tournament loomed before them, no longer just a distant memory but an imminent reality—one that would set in motion a chain of events they were desperate to alter.
With determined expressions, they rose from the table, ready to face whatever this new timeline had in store for them. The day of the champion selection had arrived, and with it, the true beginning of their mission to rewrite history.
Harry's footsteps echoed through the cold, damp corridors of the dungeons as he made his way to the Potions classroom. The familiar smell of herbs and various brewing ingredients wafted through the air, bringing a bittersweet nostalgia that threatened to overwhelm him. He tuned out Ron and Seamus' animated debate about Quidditch, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Once, he might have joined in, but now... now, it all seemed so trivial.
His gaze drifted to Hermione, her brow furrowed in concentration. "No doubt she's thinking of how to live up to Snape's expectations," he thought, a mixture of fondness and melancholy washing over him. How young they all were, how innocent...
As they entered the classroom, a shiver ran down Harry's spine. It had been nearly three decades since he'd last set foot in this room. The memories hit him like a tidal wave – the fear, the anger, the confusion of his youth. But also, begrudgingly, the respect he'd eventually developed for Snape's exacting standards. Harry's lips quirked in a wry smile as he remembered how those very standards had prepared him far better for Auror training than he'd ever realized.
With a deep breath, Harry settled into a seat near the front of the class, right beside Hermione. He could feel Snape's eyes boring into him, practically radiating suspicion. The Potions Master's voice cut through the quiet murmur of the classroom like a knife.
"Fancy seeing you sit on the first row, Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. "It seems you have finally understood that fame isn't going to buy you grades in my subject."
Harry looked up, meeting Snape's gaze steadily. A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "Yes, Professor," he replied, his voice calm but tinged with a hint of... was that amusement? "I just realized that Voldy didn't try to attack me last year. That just elevated the stakes of him trying to take my life this year. Not to mention that Professor Trelawney predicts my death every other week. Better safe than sorry."
The classroom fell silent, students holding their breath, waiting for Snape's reaction. For a moment, confusion flickered across the Potions Master's face, quickly replaced by his usual sneer. Unable to find fault with Harry's logic, he sharply turned and strode to the board, his robes billowing behind him.
As Snape began explaining the day's lesson – brewing the Calming Draught – Harry felt a pang of sorrow. How many times had he, Neville, and even Draco relied on this very potion in that dark future? The memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed them back, focusing on the task at hand.
As Snape's explanation of the Calming Draught echoed through the dungeon, Harry felt a chill run down his spine. His eyes met Neville's across the room, then flicked to Draco. A silent understanding passed between the three time-travelers.
"It is used to calm a person down after they have suffered a shock, trauma, or emotional outburst," Snape drawled, his dark eyes sweeping the classroom. "It should taste like water, unless someone is incompetent and illiterate enough to not read the instructions on the board and add too much peppermint oil." His gaze lingered on Neville, who squirmed uncomfortably, despite having faced scores of dark wizards on battlefields alone.
"Follow the instructions on the board, and make the potion," Snape concluded. "You have exactly two hours."
With a shared sense of grim determination, Harry, Neville, and Draco set to work with unmatched efficiency. The familiar motions brought back a flood of memories - brewing this very potion on a near-weekly basis to calm their trauma in the early stages of the Obscura Order's invasion. The ghosts of their fallen friends and family seemed to hover at the edges of their vision as they worked.
An hour into the allotted time, their hands shot up almost simultaneously. The look of utter bewilderment on Snape's face was almost comical, his eyes darting between Potter, Longbottom, and Malfoy as if convinced he was hallucinating.
Snape approached Draco first, peering into his godson's cauldron. A rich blue liquid stared back at him, its consistency perfect. "Considering the color," Snape began, his voice tinged with surprise, "it would suggest that you have also started taking lessons alongside our celebrity, Mr. Potter." He sniffed the potion, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Five points to Slytherin for a perfect potion on the first try."
The classroom erupted in hushed whispers. Draco Malfoy, finishing before Hermione Granger and Daphne Greengrass? It was unheard of.
Snape moved to Neville next, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at the identical shade of blue in the Gryffindor's cauldron. "Mr. Longbottom," he began, his voice dripping with skepticism, "how did you make this brew? Considering your usual... performance in this classroom, I find it hard to believe you can brew the Calming Draught with such perfection. Who helped you cheat?"
Neville fought to suppress a scowl, years of battlefield experience helping him maintain his composure. "No one, Professor," he bit out, barely containing his frustration. "I just followed your instructions."
Snape's eyes flashed dangerously. "You possibly can't make me believe that you are capable of brewing such a potion by yourself on your first try, Longbottom. Five points from Gryffindor for cheating. Another five for lying to a professor."
Before Neville could protest, Snape swept back to the front of the class, stopping at Harry's cauldron. His face contorted with a mixture of anger and disbelief as he stared at the perfect brew.
When Snape finally reached Harry's cauldron, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Is it a new consensus among Gryffindors that cheating is the way to go about in Potions?!" he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "First Longbottom, and now you, Potter! You think arrogantly cheating like this is going to help you defeat the Dark Lord?! Or was your bold declaration when the lesson started just words?!"
Harry felt a surge of anger, quickly tempered by years of practiced Occlumency. He took a deep breath, his green eyes meeting Snape's black ones. "I'm sorry to crumble your assumptions, Professor Snape," he began, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of barely suppressed emotion, "but I haven't cheated, as eloquently as you put it."
The class collectively gasped. Draco, from his seat across the room, was visibly struggling to keep a straight face. Harry continued, his voice growing stronger with each word.
"I fail to understand your prejudice against other Houses, sir. You always go out of your way to make lives miserable for students who aren't in Slytherin. You deduct points even if someone breathes out of turn! You believe that no one is as good at academics as Slytherins. I fail to see this non-existent rivalry you've started!"
Harry paused, noting the various shades of red Snape's face was cycling through. He pressed on, his voice now tinged with a mixture of sadness and frustration.
"I heard about a few things from my godfather over the summer, sir. Stories from his time at Hogwarts, my childhood before that night. I admit my father and godfather were immature, insufferable teens who needed to be brought on a tight leash. Something which this school failed at. You were pranked over and over again, for nothing more than your choice to maintain a childhood friendship with a Gryffindor."
The class was hanging on Harry's every word, the air thick with tension. Even Hermione looked shocked, her eyes darting between Harry and Snape.
"And let's not forget the Shrieking Shack incident," Harry continued, his voice now barely above a whisper, yet carrying to every corner of the silent classroom. "I still wonder how my godfather wasn't expelled for that stunt. That foolhardiness risked the lives of three different students, and all he got was a slap on the wrist."
Harry's eyes softened, a hint of compassion creeping into his voice. "I cannot deny you were wronged by everyone... But now my father has been dead for nearly thirteen years. My godfather is on the run for crimes he didn't commit. Remus is scraping by because of his condition. And let's not talk about the shitty rat."
Ron looked sick at the words, the memory of Scabbers still a raw wound.
"So, let me ask you this, Professor," Harry said, his voice now filled with a wisdom far beyond his years. "What rivalry are you trying to level? Because if you're taking out your anger on this generation, you are the most immature, foolish, petty person I've ever seen. You blame them for your destroyed friendship with your Gryffindor friend, yet do you ever wonder if you had been able to see that even your friend was a victim of pranks, and you hadn't uttered that word, things might have been different?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Snape stood frozen, a kaleidoscope of emotions flashing across his face – anger, embarrassment, sadness, regret, and finally settling back on anger. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for disrespect towards a professor. And a week's worth of detention for Potter!"
"What are you dunderheads waiting for?! Get back to work!"
As the class resumed their brewing, the air remained charged with tension and unspoken words. Harry turned back to his cauldron, exchanging meaningful glances with Neville and Draco. The trio shared a look of understanding, all too aware that this was just the beginning of the changes they needed to make.
The rest of the class worked in stunned silence, steal glances at the three students who had inexplicably mastered a complex potion on their first try. Hermione, in particular, seemed torn between admiration and frustration, her competitive nature warring with her pride in her friends' apparent academic progress.
As they bottled their potions and cleaned their workstations, the Gryffindors and Slytherins exited the doom in hushed, excited whispers, about who would be the Champions at the ceremony which would start in a few minutes.