The Road Not Taken: Chapter One
See Master Post for details.
Prologue
Chapter One
Harry woke with a shout. He swung out, eyes blind and blurry. He was - there was - Lily - he had to find the…
“Boy!” A voice roared next to him. A door was yanked open and a hand caught Harry across the face. “You’ll bloody well be quiet in this house! I’ll have none of your freakish nonsense all night long!”
Harry groped at the hand tangled in his top. “Uncle - Uncle Vernon?”
“Of course it’s me, you twit! What kind of mental deficiency do you have?”
Harry hung onto the meaty fist as Vernon dragged him out of the Cupboard Under The Stairs. “Wait - wait -,” Harry gasped. “Wait - there was a - where am I - I -”
“Where are you? Where are you? You ungrateful brat, who do you think you are?” Vernon’s round face was a featureless blob in front of Harry’s eyes. “You’re in our house, you freak! First, you pull that stunt with the snake and now you’ve been keeping us all awake with your noise! Stop it, stop it right now!”
“Let me go!” Harry struggled in the man’s hold. This wasn’t - this wasn’t right. He had - he had to - there was no time - Harry had to…
The cuff to his ear caught Harry unawares. Black and white spots bloomed over his vision. Harry cried out, tasting blood as Vernon dropped him.
“You’ll keep quiet, you little freak,” Vernon pushed Harry back into the cupboard. Harry’s head connected with a sharp crack against the frame. The door slammed shut and the lock was flipped. Harry lay huddled on the narrow, dusty strip of concrete between his cot and the door.
What went wrong? This wasn’t - Harry had meant to go back, to warn himself, to - to fix it all. Back to the start, when everything had gone wrong, back to when -
Harry groped around, feeling the space. It was the Cupboard Under the Stairs. That was Uncle Vernon. The man had never - he had never beat Harry before, not, not really - liar, a voice in his head said - but Harry was not supposed to be there!
He found the cord to the light bulb. Weak as it was, Harry still winced away from the illumination. There used to be a small, cracked mirror on one of his shelves. He found his glasses with some fumbling, and then he found the broken bit of glass. He stared into it, heart stuttering in his chest.
His ten-year-old reflection stared back at him. Wide green eyes, obscured by thick glasses, the messy mop of hair he had never been able to tame. Harry’s breath caught as he pushed up the fringe. There, there was the lightning bolt scar, the mark that branded him as the Boy-Who-Lived, as well as a Horcrux, a keeper of a piece of Voldemort’s soul.
Harry let his hands drop. Heavy feet stomped up the stairs. He reached for the cord and shut off the light before Vernon could return. It was an old reaction, a known reaction. Harry - Harry was…he was…
“I’m back,” he whispered into the dark. Hot pressure burned against his lids. “I - I’m back.” His children were safe. Except - except -
“Merlin,” Harry clutched at his chest. His children. They had killed his children, right in - right in front of…
Harry curled over his knees, clutching at his cot as he breathed out shuddering sobs. He had failed. He had failed. His children were gone, weren’t even alive, they were - they were…
Harry froze, eyes open and unseeing. No. His children weren’t dead. They just weren’t born yet. Harry had - there had been a mistake. The device had been broken. Harry had meant to go back only a few years, months if he could, to protect his children, to warn the world about the evil growing in the east. He’d meant to go back and talk to Ginny, to - to try and…
But he had gone too far. Harry pulled off his glasses, hands trembling like leaves in a gale. The trouble with time turners, he remembered Hermione saying, was that they caused paradoxes if you went back too far. Hermione! Harry jolted on the ground. Ron and Hermione were still alive! So were Remus and Tonks and Sirius. There were so many still alive.
But…Harry shook his head, wincing as his headache bloomed behind his eyes. Time turners were only supposed to take you back physically. He - he was ten again. He was little, skin and bones and starving. He was no longer in his adult body, with the scars and muscle he had acquired through bad luck and hard work. He was - he was just a kid again. It wasn’t - it wasn’t supposed to work that way.
Harry covered his face with his hands and tried to slow the frantic chaos in his mind. Go slow, he remembered Hermione lecturing him once over a homework problem. Work it out, piece by piece. Panic threatened to choke him. Harry battled it back, ruthless. He had to concentrate. It - he could ruin everything if he didn’t bloody well concentrate.
Years of Auror training and a brutal course in the horrors of war had taught Harry how to push his mind past the horror or pain of an event and focus. He was ten, near eleven if he had to guess by his placement in the cupboard. He had traveled back in time, but not physically as he had anticipated.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. It was difficult, far more difficult than he remembered. His body was a riot of different emotions and thoughts, his heart still beat too fast in his ears, breath coming in short pants instead of slow and steady.
He dove into his mind. The books Malfoy had given him had been far better teachers than Snape had ever been. Which was ironic, since the books had been the Potion Master’s own, inherited by Malfoy when Snape had died. Harry tried to push the irrelevant thoughts away, but they lingered. Malfoy - Harry had buried the hatchet with the Slytherin years after they had left Hogwarts. Harry had never seen the point to keep the grudge alive, even if Ginny had been furious with Harry’s acceptance of Malfoy in the Ministry. Merlin, they’d even started to - to be - well, not friends, exactly, but Malfoy had somehow insinuated himself with the Aurors at the Ministry and often showed up at the Friday night pub meetings they used to have. Somehow, Harry always ended up sitting next to the blond git, he remembered. It was how they’d buried the hatchet in the first place.
It hadn’t been easy, Harry remembered. He was still too prone to take Draco’s dry humor as cutting remarks meant to hurt. The Slytherin had a cynical view of the world that Harry had come to appreciate after hard cases gone sour, after having to take children out of bad homes and arresting a man for the murder of his wife. Draco wouldn’t pity him, wouldn’t pat him on the hand or demand that he ‘get over it’ or ‘don’t dwell’. The Slytherin had no words of comfort for Harry, just dry humor or a comfortable silence. Harry shouldn’t have encouraged the easy way Draco would also pick up the tab. Ron and Hermione had been leery for far longer than Harry, but the blond had won them all over in the end, somehow.
Harry shook off the memories and tried to concentrate. Draco was still alive, now, as well. So are Ron and Hermione and Terry and - and -
Harry pushed it all away and concentrated. There was a foreign touch to his mind, but it had Voldemort’s familiar tang to its mental ‘taste’. Harry probed deeper, but his mind, his soul was the only one in residence. His thirty-six year old, adult, battle-scarred mind, in a ten-year-old body.
Harry dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Fact, he heard Hermione’s voice in his mind yet again. You’re ten years old again. Fact: you are back at the beginning, before everything happened.
Fact: You have a chance to change everything.
Harry’s breath caught yet again. He could do it. He could. He could save them all, he could listen more, learn more, warn Sirius, warn Remus, protect everyone from the fate the other future had carved for them.
Remember the paradoxes, Harry, the memory of Hermione whispered. But how could paradox exist, if Harry had gone back to his ten-year-old self? There was no double to effect time, no double of himself to create a paradox within the time line.
Harry stared out into the dark, mind a million miles away from the dusty, cramped closet around him. He had a second chance to get it all right. He had a second chance to make sure his children lived. He had a chance.
Harry had every intention of taking it.
On to Chapter Two
Prologue
Chapter One
Harry woke with a shout. He swung out, eyes blind and blurry. He was - there was - Lily - he had to find the…
“Boy!” A voice roared next to him. A door was yanked open and a hand caught Harry across the face. “You’ll bloody well be quiet in this house! I’ll have none of your freakish nonsense all night long!”
Harry groped at the hand tangled in his top. “Uncle - Uncle Vernon?”
“Of course it’s me, you twit! What kind of mental deficiency do you have?”
Harry hung onto the meaty fist as Vernon dragged him out of the Cupboard Under The Stairs. “Wait - wait -,” Harry gasped. “Wait - there was a - where am I - I -”
“Where are you? Where are you? You ungrateful brat, who do you think you are?” Vernon’s round face was a featureless blob in front of Harry’s eyes. “You’re in our house, you freak! First, you pull that stunt with the snake and now you’ve been keeping us all awake with your noise! Stop it, stop it right now!”
“Let me go!” Harry struggled in the man’s hold. This wasn’t - this wasn’t right. He had - he had to - there was no time - Harry had to…
The cuff to his ear caught Harry unawares. Black and white spots bloomed over his vision. Harry cried out, tasting blood as Vernon dropped him.
“You’ll keep quiet, you little freak,” Vernon pushed Harry back into the cupboard. Harry’s head connected with a sharp crack against the frame. The door slammed shut and the lock was flipped. Harry lay huddled on the narrow, dusty strip of concrete between his cot and the door.
What went wrong? This wasn’t - Harry had meant to go back, to warn himself, to - to fix it all. Back to the start, when everything had gone wrong, back to when -
Harry groped around, feeling the space. It was the Cupboard Under the Stairs. That was Uncle Vernon. The man had never - he had never beat Harry before, not, not really - liar, a voice in his head said - but Harry was not supposed to be there!
He found the cord to the light bulb. Weak as it was, Harry still winced away from the illumination. There used to be a small, cracked mirror on one of his shelves. He found his glasses with some fumbling, and then he found the broken bit of glass. He stared into it, heart stuttering in his chest.
His ten-year-old reflection stared back at him. Wide green eyes, obscured by thick glasses, the messy mop of hair he had never been able to tame. Harry’s breath caught as he pushed up the fringe. There, there was the lightning bolt scar, the mark that branded him as the Boy-Who-Lived, as well as a Horcrux, a keeper of a piece of Voldemort’s soul.
Harry let his hands drop. Heavy feet stomped up the stairs. He reached for the cord and shut off the light before Vernon could return. It was an old reaction, a known reaction. Harry - Harry was…he was…
“I’m back,” he whispered into the dark. Hot pressure burned against his lids. “I - I’m back.” His children were safe. Except - except -
“Merlin,” Harry clutched at his chest. His children. They had killed his children, right in - right in front of…
Harry curled over his knees, clutching at his cot as he breathed out shuddering sobs. He had failed. He had failed. His children were gone, weren’t even alive, they were - they were…
Harry froze, eyes open and unseeing. No. His children weren’t dead. They just weren’t born yet. Harry had - there had been a mistake. The device had been broken. Harry had meant to go back only a few years, months if he could, to protect his children, to warn the world about the evil growing in the east. He’d meant to go back and talk to Ginny, to - to try and…
But he had gone too far. Harry pulled off his glasses, hands trembling like leaves in a gale. The trouble with time turners, he remembered Hermione saying, was that they caused paradoxes if you went back too far. Hermione! Harry jolted on the ground. Ron and Hermione were still alive! So were Remus and Tonks and Sirius. There were so many still alive.
But…Harry shook his head, wincing as his headache bloomed behind his eyes. Time turners were only supposed to take you back physically. He - he was ten again. He was little, skin and bones and starving. He was no longer in his adult body, with the scars and muscle he had acquired through bad luck and hard work. He was - he was just a kid again. It wasn’t - it wasn’t supposed to work that way.
Harry covered his face with his hands and tried to slow the frantic chaos in his mind. Go slow, he remembered Hermione lecturing him once over a homework problem. Work it out, piece by piece. Panic threatened to choke him. Harry battled it back, ruthless. He had to concentrate. It - he could ruin everything if he didn’t bloody well concentrate.
Years of Auror training and a brutal course in the horrors of war had taught Harry how to push his mind past the horror or pain of an event and focus. He was ten, near eleven if he had to guess by his placement in the cupboard. He had traveled back in time, but not physically as he had anticipated.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. It was difficult, far more difficult than he remembered. His body was a riot of different emotions and thoughts, his heart still beat too fast in his ears, breath coming in short pants instead of slow and steady.
He dove into his mind. The books Malfoy had given him had been far better teachers than Snape had ever been. Which was ironic, since the books had been the Potion Master’s own, inherited by Malfoy when Snape had died. Harry tried to push the irrelevant thoughts away, but they lingered. Malfoy - Harry had buried the hatchet with the Slytherin years after they had left Hogwarts. Harry had never seen the point to keep the grudge alive, even if Ginny had been furious with Harry’s acceptance of Malfoy in the Ministry. Merlin, they’d even started to - to be - well, not friends, exactly, but Malfoy had somehow insinuated himself with the Aurors at the Ministry and often showed up at the Friday night pub meetings they used to have. Somehow, Harry always ended up sitting next to the blond git, he remembered. It was how they’d buried the hatchet in the first place.
It hadn’t been easy, Harry remembered. He was still too prone to take Draco’s dry humor as cutting remarks meant to hurt. The Slytherin had a cynical view of the world that Harry had come to appreciate after hard cases gone sour, after having to take children out of bad homes and arresting a man for the murder of his wife. Draco wouldn’t pity him, wouldn’t pat him on the hand or demand that he ‘get over it’ or ‘don’t dwell’. The Slytherin had no words of comfort for Harry, just dry humor or a comfortable silence. Harry shouldn’t have encouraged the easy way Draco would also pick up the tab. Ron and Hermione had been leery for far longer than Harry, but the blond had won them all over in the end, somehow.
Harry shook off the memories and tried to concentrate. Draco was still alive, now, as well. So are Ron and Hermione and Terry and - and -
Harry pushed it all away and concentrated. There was a foreign touch to his mind, but it had Voldemort’s familiar tang to its mental ‘taste’. Harry probed deeper, but his mind, his soul was the only one in residence. His thirty-six year old, adult, battle-scarred mind, in a ten-year-old body.
Harry dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Fact, he heard Hermione’s voice in his mind yet again. You’re ten years old again. Fact: you are back at the beginning, before everything happened.
Fact: You have a chance to change everything.
Harry’s breath caught yet again. He could do it. He could. He could save them all, he could listen more, learn more, warn Sirius, warn Remus, protect everyone from the fate the other future had carved for them.
Remember the paradoxes, Harry, the memory of Hermione whispered. But how could paradox exist, if Harry had gone back to his ten-year-old self? There was no double to effect time, no double of himself to create a paradox within the time line.
Harry stared out into the dark, mind a million miles away from the dusty, cramped closet around him. He had a second chance to get it all right. He had a second chance to make sure his children lived. He had a chance.
Harry had every intention of taking it.
On to Chapter Two