Chapter Text
Someone was screaming.
Was he screaming?
No, Hagrid was screaming. Hagrid was screaming for him. No, Hagrid was crying for him.
“Hagrid, don’t cry, this is my time. This is the close. I understand now,” he tried to say, but couldn’t.
The last thing that Harry James Potter did before he died was smile.
He could rest now.
Everything was white.
He thought of the piercing white that came from freshly fallen snow, the soft light that had adorned the walls of Shell Cottage, and the yellow, artificial light that shone from the ceiling in the Hospital Wing.
It was all of these things, yet none of these things.
The walls were white too; and they were oddly familiar, like a scene from a dream he could barely remember.
For there were walls; there was no difference in coloring, nor in texture, but he could tell, the same way he knew that the sky was blue, and the grass was green.
He bit back a chuckle, because recently, the sky was never blue, and the grass was an ugly shade of brown.
He looked at his hands, remarking absently that they were free from the little scars that came from cooking greasy things too young, and messing up a spell or a potion one too many times. When he reached up to his face to push up his glasses, he found that they weren’t there either.
Was he dead?
The last thing that Harry remembered was a blinding flash of green, then a sense of peace; as if something wrong had exited his body for good. Although, he supposed that a piece of someone else’s soul would definitely feel wrong in his body.
Why wasn’t he freaking out more about being dead?
“That, my boy, is probably because you aren’t.”
He answered before he thought, “Dead? Voldemort killed me, right?” Just as he finished speaking, he whipped around, flinching back almost violently. “Professor Dumbledore?”
Dumbledore stared back at him, beaming as he stretched his arms out, beckoning Harry closer. His face was wrinkled, but it was missing the tension that had plagued it for years now, making him seem younger than Harry had ever seen him. He was wearing white robes that matched his hair and beard, as well as the walls and the floors and everything here; wherever here was. "Harry, my boy, how I’ve missed you.”
Harry rushed over, jaw slack, eyes wide. He swallowed. Once. Twice. “Professor?” His voice cracked, and he winced internally.
“You brave, brave boy. You wonderful boy. Walk with me.” Dumbledore put his arms around Harry’s shoulders as they strolled across the endless stretch of white. Harry noticed that Dumbledore was speaking, but his words went in through one ear, and out the other, and he found himself answering questions blearily without fully processing what he was saying. His thoughts were jumping and spiraling from moment to moment, because holy shit, was he dead? and, he hoped his friends were okay.
He was torn out of his thoughts when a sharp cry sounded, reminding him of the way Dudley used to sob when he didn’t get his way. The way he used to sob when he was locked in his cupboard without food for days on end.
He spun around, reaching for a wand that was conspicuously absent, before jumping back so quickly that he almost backed into Dumbledore.
It was a baby.
An ugly one, sure, but a baby nonetheless.
“You cannot help,” he said, and Harry almost snarled. Who was he to leave this child alone without a passing glance, who was he to make this child suffer?
Suddenly, he was nauseous. Was that baby-
“Is that… is that Voldemort?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes. I’m afraid that it is.” Dumbledore patted his shoulder, leading him away from the child as it wailed. Screamed.
Dumbledore was speaking, but Harry wasn't listening anymore.
He almost startled when he realized that he was mourning. Grieving for all the things that he wouldn't be able to do, the people he'd left behind, and the people he'd failed in his absence.
Mourning his lost time.
He thought back to the cupboard, and he wondered what it'd be like if he were just Harry. Just Harry, who didn't need to worry about Dark Lords and prophecies; a Harry who could devote his life to things that he cared about. A Harry who wasn't suffocating under the weight of everyone's expectations, and a Harry who would never take his time for granted again.
Several minutes passed, and Harry blinked rapidly before tuning back into the conversation.
“You could always choose to go back.” What? “Tom has always been a good dueler. And technically, you are the Master of Death. You could be a big help. You could live, Harry. Live with those that you love.” Harry felt his eyes watering, and his chest tightened.
He frowned, thinking about all of the people he’d lost; the babies who would grow up orphans, just like him. He thought about the baby; his screams winding down to whimpers by now. He thought about the title ‘Master of Death,’ and all that it entailed.
He couldn't save everyone; not the ones that were already dead, the ones who would forever feel the loss of their siblings, their parents, their partners, and all the things they could have done with more time.
He could have more time. If he wanted it.
“I want to live. No, I want everyone to live.”
The world faded away around him, and the last part to blink away was the sharp, proud twinkle of Dumbledore’s eyes.
He opened his eyes to a large, hairy spider sitting on his face, and the inside of a cupboard underneath the stairs of Number Four Privet Drive.
“What?” His voice was shrill and hoarse, and he winced at the way it cracked. He’d spoken louder than he’d meant to, and he found himself inching towards the back of the cupboard like he used to do when he was younger; when he didn't have his magic as a shield, his self-preservation instincts lessening with each murder attempt he thwarted. He surveilled the area, not finding anything out of the ordinary, before he looked down at himself in shock.
He was… young.
If he had to provide an estimate, he thought that he would put himself at around nine or older, but he’d always been small for his age.
His clothes were worn and baggy, and he rolled up his sleeves as high as they could go while slapping spiders off his body, thinking absently that Ron would go mental if he ever heard about this.
“The hell is going on?” Harry whispered to himself, reaching for a wand that wasn’t there, and chiding himself for making that mistake a second time in the last few minutes.
Did he go back in time? Was all of Hogwarts an elaborate dream he’d cooked up? He shivered at the thought, and all of the spiders abruptly scuttled away from him.
No, he couldn’t have imagined Hogwarts and magic if he’d been with the Dementors for several bloody lifetimes.
Was this a hallucination then?
He pinched himself, almost gasping in pain when he squeezed at what must have been a burn from bacon grease, almost jumping out of his skin as splinters of wood fell from the ceiling as Dudley jumped on the stairs, pounding on the area right above his the cupboard.
“Wake up cousin, we’re going to the zoo!” Dudley screeched, stomping on the stairs once more for good measure.
Harry grabbed his glasses, shoving them onto his face before rolling off the mattress and opening the cupboard door, only to have it slam back on him, shifting the tape on his glasses to the point where he had to unwind and redo it to have them stay on his face.
He knew today.
He knew it like the back of his hand, or the inside of his pocket, or whatever rubbish Hermione came up with next to ‘familiarize Harry to the idioms of other cultures,’ and to accommodate for Krum during the short time that they dated.
Today was the day they went to the zoo. Today was Dudley’s birthday, and today was the day he'd talked to a snake for the first time.
He was going mental, wasn’t he.
Or he was dead, and that cryptic Dumbledore limbo afterlife thing was completely and utterly bullshit, and he was in hell; a hell where he didn’t have magic and he lived with the Dursleys. He shivered.
“Boy, get up! You will do nothing to ruin our Dudder's special day!” Aunt Petunia was the one shouting this time, and he almost snorted at the resemblance between Dudley’s tantrums, and what Petunia said on a daily basis.
He probably shouldn’t be so casual about this mess; but he supposed that the amount of craziness that occurred around and to him had tempered his reactions so that anything behind ‘your death is instrumental to your parents’ murderer’s downfall,’ and ‘your pseudo grandfather knew about it all along,’ seemed rather tame in comparison.
Vernon reached into the cupboard, and before he could do anything, tugged him out by the hair as he kicked out on reflex. Clearly, his muscles had not undergone a magical transformation, (ha, magical) and his protests were weak and pathetic.
Pathetic.
He'd thought that after he discovered that he was a wizard, that he would never be helpless again; it was something he’d promised himself when he’d gotten himself away from Privet Drive. But now, here he was, weak again.
“Cook breakfast!” Vernon’s voice was filled with vitriol, and Harry turned his face away just in time to avoid the spittle that flew his way.
He would never be weak again.
“Fuck this. You know what? Fuck this.” He twisted himself out from under Vernon, using a combination of his skinniness, and his impromptu hand-to-hand combat training from Ron and Ginny to squirm away, stepping away towards the door.
“Boy! What are you doing? Boy!”
Harry let out a snarl that was half feral, and grinned when Vernon seemed cowed. “This might be a dream, or a nightmare, or something else entirely, but I can’t take this anymore, and I won’t take this anymore.” By now, Dudley and Petunia had come over, all of them glaring.
“What are you-”
Harry turned, grabbing Petunia’s purse from its hook near the front door, and he waltzed out the front door before breaking into a dead sprint.
He only realized how utterly stupid his plans were when he’d already run a kilometer or so from the neighborhood and was halfway to the bus station.
(Maybe Snape’s dislike of Gryffindors was a tiny bit justified? Only a tiny bit though.)
(Maybe Hermione’s love of planning held merit too; but he certainly wasn’t going to admit to that in front of her.)
He had around fifty pounds from the purse, and he’d ditched anything recognizable as soon as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. He was probably damaging the timeline irrevocably, but this clearly didn’t work like the Time Turners did, and hey; he was the Master of Death (was he?); he should be able to make some alterations here and there, right?
He took a deep breath in, sitting on a park bench in clear view of the bus station, and he planned.
He was hungry; likely, the event at the zoo had been precluded by a few days in the cupboard without food, and he allocated twenty pounds for food in his budget. Three or so pounds would get him to the Leaky Cauldron, and from there, if he disguised himself well, he could get to Gringotts without much difficulty.
Now, for a disguise.
He could try using hair dye or something, but his real issue was the scar. With that thing in plain sight, he would be swarmed.
He frowned. There were spells that could grow out hair, but he didn’t have a wand yet.
But why would a wand be needed? It was just a channel for their own, magical strength, otherwise the muggles would be able to use magic too.
What about controlled accidental magic?
He frowned again, thinking about all the times he’d done something; turned a teacher’s hair bright blue, unlocked the door to his the cupboard to get water and food; he thought about the feeling he got when he was performing a spell; a pull on the energy pulsing inside him that gravitated to his wand; and he gasped in pleasure when he felt a tug on his scalp, and saw hair growing down to his shoulders. (He’d been aiming for the chin, but hey - close enough!)
He smiled, grinning in delight as he realized his hair was curlier than he thought it was going to be, and that that curliness covered up his scar perfectly.
It seemed so silly to be delighted at little things like this, but he’d promised himself that he was going to live, didn’t he?
Harry wondered when he’d accepted his little jump to the past, but paid it no mind. If this was his second chance, he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it.
He bought a sandwich, as well as a notebook from a little shop around the corner, and he sat on the bench, planning as best as he could. He’d written down a comprehensive, if vague, timeline of events from now to his death, (and wasn’t that a bizarre thought to have) and he’d decided on several things.
First, was that no one he loved was going to die this time around.
It was selfish, sure, and inconvenient as hell. But he didn’t give a fuck.
He remembered Sirius’ face when he fell through the veil; the happiness slipping off his face like water off a duck’s back; he remembered Fred’s cold, dead eyes; he remembered Lupin and Tonks and everyone else who’d died because of him. (He remembered the haunted eyes of Severus Snape, a man he hated and loved in equal measure, and he thought that perhaps he could save the people like him too; the bitter ones, the brittle ones, the ones with hearts of glass and minds of steel who only ever wanted to do the right thing.)
There would be no death this time.
Second, was that he wasn’t going to not change things in the hope that he could have more comprehensive knowledge of the future. He would rather have a solid foundation and no future knowledge over more foresight, and a plan that depended heavily on whether events remained the same or not. He didn’t know how anything he did on a daily basis; whether it be brushing his teeth a few minutes early, or going on a bus ride that he shouldn’t, would affect the timeline. The future was unpredictable, and he wouldn’t rely on his knowledge of it too heavily.
Lastly, and most importantly, was this.
He would be no one’s pawn.
No one’s sacrifice, no one’s lamb, no one’s puppet to be jerked around like a spider under the Imperius.
(Ah. He was bitter about Dumbledore after all.)
(And the fact that the one to come to his ‘defense’ was Snape… well.)
He’d said that he would live and laugh and love this time around, and that was precisely what he planned on doing.
(He thought about a lost future where Ron was, where Hermione was, where Ginny was, where Luna and Neville and-)
He ripped his thoughts away from that; there was no point in ‘what-ifs,’ and he wouldn’t give up this chance to save more, to help more, unless he was dragged off kicking and biting and cursing and screaming bloody murder, and that was a promise.
He finished his sandwich with a small smile, and put away his notebook.
Off to Gringotts.
It was a three hour bus ride, and Harry had bought three more sandwiches for the duration.
He made sure to pace himself while eating the second sandwich, and he wondered absently why no one was questioning the ten year old child that was sitting on a bus while very much alone and devouring a sandwich like it cost millions.
Harry swung off the bus at his stop, tossing the plastic wrap of the sandwich into the nearest bin, and carefully clutching his remaining belongings. He didn’t realize that he was shaking until he came to a stop right in front of the Leaky Cauldron for the first time in forever.
He swallowed, watching everyone around him stream around the door as if it weren’t there, and he grinned. It was real. It had to be real.
He opened the door, rushing to the front desk while dodging the occupants. He cleared his throat, and Tom came over. “Excuse me, could you open the… uh, the wall to Diagon Alley please?”
Tom smiled. “Hogwarts?” Harry nodded. “Come along then.”
It was beautiful.
He hadn’t noticed how much the empty, desolate streets of Diagon Alley had affected him the first time around until now; when it was lively and colourful and filled with life. Harry had stumbled forwards before he meant to, gaping at everything as he went by. He thought that he could hear Tom snickering behind him at his reaction before the gate slid back closed, and he grimaced.
His grimace didn’t last long.
He walked towards Gringotts as if in a trance, checking his forehead to make sure that it was still covered almost constantly. Just looking was enough to make him shake, and he hurried along to get away from all the noise.
It felt like too much time, and not enough time when he made it to the bank at last, and he almost giggled because the last time he’d been here, he’d broken in and escaped on a dragon. And the dragon wasn’t even the most insane thing he'd done that week!
He exhaled, steeling himself, before walking in, head up, eyes facing forwards as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
He’d gotten significantly better at controlling his emotional outbursts - he’d had to with the horcruxes around all the time, and in turn, he’d gotten better at acting and Occluding. He drew on both of those skills now.
Harry walked up to the front desk, and rang the bell.
The goblin glanced over the giant stack of papers in front of them, rolled their eyes, and sighed. “Key?”
“I’m afraid that I don’t have one; I was just wondering whether I had any open accounts. I was told," for a given definition of told, "that I have one here.”
The goblin grunted. “What is your name?”
“Harry James Potter.” The goblin raised their eyebrows, and Harry pushed his hair aside to show them his scar.
“Hand.” Harry put out his hand hesitantly, and the goblin grabbed it, getting a knife and poking one of his fingers. He winced, but didn’t comment. The blood dripped onto a parchment of some sort, and he watched as it sunk into the page.
The goblin bared their teeth. “You are not under the effects of polyjuice, and there is nothing magical changing your appearance." The goblin looked almost disappointed. "Your vault numbers are 687, 804, and 372. Remember that. Follow me.”
“Vault numbers?”
“Yes.” He was led towards the cart, and he stepped inside hesitantly. “You have an account your parents reserved for higher education and savings, one for everyday expenses, and one for investments you might make for 687, 804, and 372 respectively.” Harry jolted as the cart started moving forward. “I am bringing you to 804.” The goblin gave him an ornate key. “This will work for all three. Don’t lose it. You only get one extra before you have to pay. I am discontinuing the use of any others.”
Harry nodded, flabbergasted.
The cart stopped, and Harry stepped out with the goblin, barely managing to keep his feet. “You have around 100,000 galleons currently reserved for higher education and savings, around 200,000 for everyday expenses, and around 250,000 in liquid assets in your investments account. You were around 800,000 galleons in debt, but that has been waived in gratitude for your part in defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." The goblin's surly expression showed exactly how he felt about that, and Harry winced. "One gallon is 5.58 pounds, one sickle is 0.33 pounds, and one knut is 0.01 pounds.”
Harry nodded dumbly. He was starting to feel like a bobblehead.
“Interest rates on your savings account is 3%, and the things your parents have invested in net a significant return. We will notify you by owl for any changes you need to be aware of. Be prepared to present yourself here on your seventeenth birthday, or when you get yourself emancipated. Questions?” The goblin whirled on him, and he flinched.
“Uh… what’s your name?” The goblin glared. “If that’s not rude to ask, I mean.”
“My name is Gornuk, Harry Potter.”
“Are there any other vaults that I have access to? Any properties?” Gornuk grimaced.
“Sirius Black, your godfather, was sentenced to life in Azkaban. He left everything to the Potters, and the Potters left everything to you. Through him, you have access to Vault 711, and Number 12 Grimmauld Place. That is the only Black property you have access to, seeing as Mr. Black had been disinherited. All of the Potters' remaining properties were destroyed by You-Know-Who. Any other questions?”
Harry frowned. He would visit Grimmauld Place soon, and Kreacher, but he would leave Vault 711 alone for when he cleared Sirius’ name.
So, what else did he need today?
It would be useful to have goblins on his side; they essentially controlled the wizarding economy, and they made artifacts that were lauded as the best in the world... and, his inner Hermione grumbled, you could stand to learn about the cultures of other beings worthy of respect and acknowledgement. He could picture the way she’d look at him and cross her arms- and how Ron would look at her fondly and stage whisper she’s mental in his ear while Hermione glared.
He swallowed, shaking himself out of his thoughts.
“I was wondering whether there were any books you could recommend about learning goblin... customs, I guess. And learning gobbledegook. Are there any goblin made artifacts that I own that I need to give back to the makers? Or pay for, I mean.” He shrunk back at the look on Gornuk’s face, and he backtracked immediately. “Never mind, that was a stupid thing to ask-”
Gornuk sighed, and Harry stopped talking. “There are books about our culture and our history in the bookshops in Diagon Alley. Find an author known as ‘Ragnok the Pigeon Toed.’ You have no goblin artifacts at this time that need to be paid for or returned." He paused. "Your mother made sure of that.”
His jaw dropped. “You knew my mother?”
Gornuk nodded. “I did. She was a lovely witch.” Harry waited, but it appeared as if that was all Gornuk was going to say, and Harry went to put his key into the slot when he was interrupted. “You take after her,” Gornuk said appraisingly.
Harry stood up straighter, looking Gornuk in the eyes. “She is a wonderful woman to take after. But I don’t want people to see her when they look at me.”
Gornuk nodded sharply, somehow conveying that this line of conversation was over without changing his expression at all. “Good. Let’s talk about gold.”
By the end of the trip, he had bought a bag that summoned any money that he needed if he asked for it and couldn’t be used by anyone but himself, he had a shiny new key to use for large withdrawals and other transactions, and he had another bag filled with muggle money.
He browsed around Diagon Alley for hours, and he purchased a suitcase with an undetectable extension charm, a featherlight charm, a separate compartment for books, a separate compartment for a bed which… okay then, and several, powerful wards on it for theft insurance. He also bought a full set of clothing for daily use, special occasions, and some muggle clothing in case he needed it. He bought almost a hundred books about customs he’d ignored the first time around, wizarding law, goblin customs and law, wizarding money, Hogwarts, some things he found interesting or useful, and the entire curriculum overview for Hogwarts and muggle school.
He ate at the Leaky Cauldron, and he rented out a room for a month.
The only things missing were his school things, which he wouldn’t buy until he got his letter, his wand, and-
Well.
Hedwig.
He wondered if she was at the Eeylops Owl Emporium right now.
He wondered whether he had the nerve to get Hedwig if she was there, because every time he thought of her now, he only saw a flash of green light and her cold, dead body on the ground of the motorcycle side-car.
Harry was at the shop now, and the world seemed to blur around him. He took a deep breath in, and exhaled. He was a Gryffindor for fuck’s sake, and a good one at that. He was brave, and he wouldn’t be cowed by a bird of all things, when he’d been visiting shops long gone and seeing people long dead for the whole day now.
He stepped into the shop, and was immediately overwhelmed with the chirps and caws from the owls there. He flinched back, but not before he saw the owl in the corner of the shop. The snowy owl.
He was in and out of there in less than five minutes with a vault that was slightly emptier, and an owl that he swore to never let down again.
His last stop was for a wand. He missed his holly wand fiercely, he craved it like a junkie might crave drugs, or an alcoholic might crave alcohol, because by now, his wand was part of him in every way that matter and when it snapped-
He stood outside of Ollivanders, and was just about to walk inside when he caught a glimpse of the boy that seemed to be heading his way too.
He was tall, skinny, and held himself with an air of poshness that was almost comical. He had blond hair that was slicked back neatly, and he was wearing robes so clean they looked new.
Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy.
Harry’s mind tore through memories; being tormented by Malfoy, tormenting Malfoy, spying on Malfoy, seeing Malfoy bleed out on the bathroom floor, watching Malfoy refuse to identify him, watching Malfoy reaching out in terror because Fiendfyre was about to consume him-
And his heart stuttered to a halt when Malfoy walked up to him, stuck his hand out, and smiled more genuinely than Harry had ever seen before. “Hey. Are you getting your wand too?”
Harry gulped, and nodded. “Yeah.” If his voice was strange or out of place, Malfoy didn’t comment. “Yeah, I am.” He shook Malfoy’s hand, and almost burst out laughing at the irony of it all.
“Hogwarts?” Before Harry could say another word, Malfoy started talking again. “I’m going to Hogwarts. I’ve always wanted to learn real magic. My father says that the headmaster is awful, but I don’t really care. I want to be in Slytherin because my whole family’s been there too, and I think I’m pretty cunning and ambitious. I’m going to be a healer and a politician when I’m older. Or an Auror, I haven’t decided. What about you? What's your blood status?”
Harry stared at him blankly, and Malfoy winced. “My name is Draco. Malfoy. Call me Draco. You’ve probably heard of my father before. He’s big in the Ministry.”
Maybe he could save Malfoy too.
And his decision was made.
“I’m Harry Potter. Did you want to be friends?”
Touching his wand again felt like coming home.
The trip to Ollivanders went much like it did previously, with one notable difference.
Malfoy.
He was talking to Malfoy.
He was enjoying talking to Malfoy, and that seemed so viscerally wrong that he’d had to take a breather every once in a while to process it.
He’d promised to keep in touch after they’d gotten their wands and Draco was to meet back up with his parents, and once again, Harry felt a little bit lighter.
He had made amends with someone, possibly prevented someone from falling into Voldemort’s grasp, and he’d fostered connections for the future.
He ignored the fact that he was talking a bit like Slughorn, and moved on, going back to his room and setting his things down.
He spent the rest of the night reading the things he’d bought, starting with curriculum stuff, as not to accidentally say something about a spell he’d learned in sixth year, and he lost himself in the magic of it all, not noticing the time until it was almost breakfast and he couldn’t sleep without missing food, which he would never take for granted, ever.
He found the muggle curriculum more interesting than he thought it would be, and he found himself thinking about the things he might have learned if he wasn’t a wizard in the muggle world, as well as wishing fervently that he’d thought to take Arithmancy and Spell Creating and Runes the first time around instead of searching for the easy O.
Everything was fascinating, and by the end of the first few weeks, he’d already read ahead to some of the muggle and magical higher education books he’d bought, as well as most of the political books he’d bought.
He made sure to keep an eye on how much he was spending on a daily basis, because he didn’t want to go bankrupt before he could defeat Voldemort, and he lived in relative peace, exchanging letters with Draco when he had the time.
He practiced wandless magic as much as he could; he didn’t know if the trace was on his wand as of yet, and he didn’t want to take any chances; and he found that he could perform most first year spells without a wand, and half of that without speaking, although both those things left him extremely tired out. It appeared as if he had to build up his ‘magic stamina’ again over time, (or maybe it just needed to go through puberty) which was annoying as hell, but he’d still be pretty far ahead of everyone else. He fixed his glasses too, which was nice.
The wizarding world was brilliant, and he hadn’t appreciated how truly brilliant it was his first go at it because he was too preoccupied with other things, like when his next meal was going to be, when the next round of Harry Hunting was to begin, and homework . Oh, also ‘not being killed by various adults way beyond his skill level.’
By the time his birthday rolled around, he was feeling prepared for whatever life could throw at him. He had made a plan for what he was going to do at Hogwarts (enjoy life and avoid Quirrell) and most of his affairs were sorted.
He’d sent back the owl for Hogwarts with his acceptance (this time, it was addressed to ‘the cabinet by the bench’ which he liked a lot less than ‘the cupboard under the stairs’ because it was less catchy) and he bought everything he needed for the school year that he didn’t have already.
By the time September came, he was practically dying of anticipation, and so was Draco. They agreed to meet on the train, and Harry was so nervous that he stayed up for three nights beforehand, crashed and slept for a day straight, then drank so much coffee that he vibrated when he stayed still for more than a minute.
He walked towards the platform, rubbing his hands together and clutching at his trolley so hard he thought that his bones might break. His breathing was fast and he was sweating because he'd just fucking remembered-
The Weasleys would be here today.
They would be here, and he would have to look them in the eyes and know that they were strangers to him; had never laughed with him on the good days, cried with him on the bad ones, had never loved him or given him his first real family. But they’d also never suffered the losses they did in the war.
He held his wand like a lifeline, and he strolled towards Platforms Nine and Ten and-
“George!”
“It’s Fred. Goodness, woman, how can you call yourself our mother?”
Harry closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Opened them again.
“Erm, excuse me, Ma’am, I was just wondering,” his voice trailed off, “it’s going to sound mad, but do you know where Platform 9 ¾ is?” He made sure to pitch his voice a bit higher than it normally was, and he tried not to look Molly Weasley in the eyes, because if he did, he would surely blurt out everything he’d ever tried to hide from her and that simply wouldn’t do. No matter how much Harry loved her, she would tell Dumbledore, (if she believed him, that was) and Dumbledore would want to know everything and do everything and his life wouldn’t be his own anymore.
“Oh, dear. First year at Hogwarts?” He nodded. “It’s the same for my boy, Ronald. Now, all you have to do is run, run as fast as you can towards the brick wall in between Platforms Nine and Ten. Close your eyes first, and you’ll be there in no time at all.”
“Okay.”
He ran through the wall, ran to the future, and it felt like he was flying.
Harry found a spot on the train with a few minutes to spare; he’d been preoccupied with seeing… well. Everyone.
Everyone alive and well and happy.
It was going to stay that way.
He peeled open his trunk, and, closing the door with a quick spell (because he could do that now, he was on his way to Hogwarts) and he changed into the school robes, taking out his money bag from Gringotts and his book about Occlumency with him.
On second thought…
He brought out a copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History.’
He unlocked the door again, and started to read before dropping the book in fright as someone stormed in, making the door creak. He picked his book up, looked up, then dropped the book again.
“Hey. Is anyone else sitting here? They fill up so quickly.”
Ron.
Weasley.
Ron.
Weasley.
Memories swarmed him like a group of angry Nifflers, (he wondered what Nifflers looked like when they were angry) and he fought them back ferociously, pushing them to the back of his mind. Yay, Occlumency! Bad Snape!
“Nope. Just me.” His stutter was almost as bad as Quirrellmort , and that was saying something.
Ron slid into the seat across from him, and grinned conspiratorially. “I heard that the Boy Who Lived is on the train today! Isn’t that cool?”
Harry’s thoughts shut down, and he swore that he heard the Windows shutdown noise somewhere in the distance.
Not his Ron. This wasn’t the Ron that had known him for years now; this was the Ron that yearned with the passion of a thousand burning suns to be better than his family, because if he was a Weasley…
He half-remembered the Sorting Hat sitting on Ron’s head shouting Gryffindor without a moment of hesitation, half-remembered what Draco, a different Draco said about their family. ‘Red hair and a hand-me-down robe, you must be a Weasley.’
What would Ron become this time around?
“Yeah. Yeah, I heard that too.” He barely managed not to choke on his words.
Just then, the compartment door slid open, and Draco came in, looking to him as if he’d spent three days slicking his hair back perfectly, then messing it up in the last three minutes. Then, he’d thought that it was a pretentious thing that rich people did, but now, Harry thought that he was just nervous; and when you were nervous, you did stupid things while trying to make a good first impression.
“Harry! I’ve been looking for you all over. Come join us in our compartment.”
Draco dragged him out of his seat, bringing his luggage with him, and Harry walked away from his first real friend to stay with his first real enemy, pretending that he didn’t know why his chest ached and his heart burned.
Before he knew it, he was in another compartment already filled with children.
Draco beamed at him, and he smiled too, taking his suitcase and putting it on the rack. “Everyone, this is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, this is Pansy Parkinson, Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Blaise Zabini.”
He slid into the seat closest to the exit, and across from Draco. “Pleased to meet you all.”
Pansy gaped. “Draco, is that Harry Potter you brought in here?”
Harry groaned. “Please don’t start that. I went into a bloody store a few days ago, and people started bowing.” A slight exaggeration from his past life, (past life?) but still technically true. “For something I don’t even remember. It’s annoying.”
Blaise snorted. “I imagine that it would be.”
Theo, who was sitting next to Harry, smirked. “You would know. Everyone you meet is infatuated with your mother.”
“Hey!”
Everyone laughed, and Harry found himself grinning too. How could he have ever thought that these people were evil?
Pansy looked at Harry, then sighed, reaching her hand towards him, shaking it. “I didn’t mean to fawn over you. I just wondered why the hell you were sitting with Draco. He’s a prat.”
Draco blushed furiously, and slapped a hand over Pansy’s mouth. “I’m not a prat!”
“Are too!” said Daphne.
Harry frowned. “He really isn’t a prat, he’s really nice, and-”
Theo raised his eyebrows judgmentally, (and how he could do that was a mystery) and punched him in the shoulder. Harry didn’t manage to stop his flinch, but he didn’t think that the others noticed. “Harry Potter is a Hufflepuff?”
Harry frowned, more forcefully this time. “What’s wrong with Hufflepuff? It’s a perfectly good house to be in.”
Draco patted him on the shoulder. “They’re just joking, don’t worry about it. Daphne’s sister is probably going to be a Hufflepuff, and I am a prat.” Blaise snickered. “Shut up, Bee.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“What, Bee?”
Harry’s features softened, and he sat there for a moment, not saying anything, soaking up the happiness in the area. He wondered whether Dementors felt like this when they were sucking up other people’s happiness.
The train had started moving, and before he knew it, he was laughing and joking around with the other occupants like he’d known them for years.
Hermione would have gotten on wonderfully with Draco and Daphne, and Ron would have loved Blaise and Pansy. Neville would have liked all of them, but especially Theo for his knowledge in Herbology, and Luna might have liked Daphne too. They just... never had the opportunity. He wondered whether they would have gotten on well, had he not jumped through time - if they'd simply had the chance to grow up.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, and it slid open, Hermione and Neville standing in the doorway. “Have any of you seen a toad by any chance? Neville has lost his. The toad’s name is Trevor.”
Harry almost dove headfirst into a panic attack. Hermione and Neville.
Not dead.
Not the same people, either.
He felt the sudden, irrational urge to hug them.
Daphne shook her head, as did the rest of their compartment. They went to leave, but Harry stopped them. “Wait a second.”
He stood.
They stopped.
“Accio Trevor the toad.” He’d seen pictures of Trevor before, so this shouldn’t be too hard. After around 30 seconds of waiting, a toad flew down the hall and into his waiting hand. He handed the toad to Neville, and sat back down.
He looked at his friends fellow passengers. They were staring.
“What?”
“You-” Hermione sputtered. “That was a fourth year spell!”
Oh. Yeah. That.
Shit.
“I read ahead?” It came out like a question, and Blaise clapped him on the back.
“Was that your first time doing it?” Blaise asked.
“...yes?”
Blaise threw his hands in the air, before burying his face in his palms. “What the fuck?”
“Language!” said Hermione, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it.
“Well, I guess I know who’s going to be at the top of the class this year for Charms.” Draco groaned dramatically, bashing his head against the wall.
Hermione recovered in a manner of seconds, and started slinging question after question about the Summoning Spell at him; most of which were answered by Daphne, and Neville looked slightly terrified before Blaise started talking to him, and Harry’s eyes stung slightly.
This wasn’t making friends by troll, and Ron was absent, but it was close enough.
He yawned. “Why am I so tired? I had so much coffee!”
Draco whipped his head around, facepalming. “You performed a fourth year summoning spell, and you’re wondering why you’re tired?”
That kickstarted a whole other debate about how much magic a given person possessed, and the logistics of storing magical energy in ones body.
To Harry’s surprise, Neville was the one talking most about this; clearly this was something that he was passionate about.
Huh. This-
This was nice.
(He could get used to this.)
Hogwarts, here we come.