Chapter Text
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Chapter 34: The Forest Again
Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear — He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
Harry Potter and the World Beyond
Where do we go after Death?
Very few things unite humanity. Humanity is too diverse, too different, too varied and most importantly, too vast.
However, that simple yet fundamental question always found itself either upon one's lips or snaking the depths of one's mind. It was a simple question that almost every human being had asked themselves. And more than anything, it was one of the only things that truly unified humanity.
Not even ghosts could answer the question.
And Harry, having now died himself, having only just conversed with the dead, couldn't answer it either.
Because for all intents and purposes he should be dead. He was almost certain he had taken an Avada Kedavra straight to the chest - almost certain that his time upon the Earth had come to a close.
But the smell of fresh grass, it's cool texture pressed against his face was unmistakable. The biting cold of the air, the wetness of rain on his skin, the feeling of clothing on his back - were all present.
Harry opened his eyes.
He found himself laying in the exact spot he had died. The same trees and the same rocks surrounded him as he sat up and took it all in. It was still dark, the sun having set hours ago, but the only difference that suggested how long he had lay there was evidenced by the pitter-patter of rain.
Oh, and also the complete absence of the Death Eaters who were only just surrounding him. The absence of Bellatrix, Lucius Malfoy, Nagini the snake and of course, the absence of Voldemort.
He looked down at himself. He wore the exact same clothes he had before his death. Stained with the very same blood and mud. But something felt different. Something felt very wrong indeed. It as as though the fabric on his skin had settled oddly.
It was only when he stood fully to his feet that he realised what the problem was. They were much too big on him. His sleeves draped over his hands rather pathetically, and his shoes flipped and flopped as he paced around, getting his bearings. How very curious, somehow his clothes had grown.
He felt alarmingly fresh. He had forgotten how fatigued and battle worn he had become over the past few months. An overwhelming exhaustion had become his new norm, as had it been for Hermione and Ron. Before Voldemort had hit him with the Killing Curse, he felt he could have collapsed into a bed and slept for many days.
But now? Now he felt energised. Awake. Youthful.
How long had he been asleep for?
His foot made contact with something that was obviously not dirt. Looking down he saw his Invisibility Cloak and his - or rather - Malfoy's wand, which he had dropped before facing Voldemort, not wanting the temptation to fight.
And only a mere glance away lay the Resurrection Stone that he had also dropped. Camouflaged amongst the other small rocks and pebbles yet abundantly visible to him. It was untouched.
He was unsure whether or not to pick it up. The reason he has let it slip from his fingers in the first place was in the hope it was would become lost in the forest forever. But that was on the account that he died. Clearly, he was not dead.
The Boy Who Lived Twice. Thought Harry bitterly. Doesn't really have the same ring to it. Won't stop the Prophet, though.
And either way, he could really use some guidance right about now. Who better than to ask why he was not dead - than the dead?
He picked up the stone, turning it over in his hand thrice. He felt rather strange now that he no longer felt drawn to his fate as though magnetised. When previously he had used the stone, it had come so natural to him that it had felt almost like an extension of his body.
Now though? Now that his path was no longer linear, and instead painfully open? Now he just felt stupid. Especially when the stone did not respond.
He had expected to talk to his family again, to once again see their faces and hear their voices, but absolutely nothing happened.
Stumped, he considered the fact that the stone had never worked in the first place. That seeing his mother, his father, Sirius and Remus had simply been the last pitiful hallucinations of a man facing his inevitable demise.
Almost breaking out into a small, mocking laugh at himself, he pocketed the stone and hid wand, grabbing his Cloak and throwing it over himself.
He set off down the winding pathways of the Forbidden Forest. He knew these pathways very well indeed. Stroking Thestrals with Luna... Meeting Aragog with Ron... fleeing from Lupin's werewolf with Hermione...
He found the edge of the forest, where the tall, looming trees began to give way to green hills and winding roads. Roads that lead directly to the great castle beyond.
From the edge of the Forbidden Forest Harry took in Hogwarts, glistening in the moonlight. It had stopped raining now, and Harry dried himself with a quick Scrougify.
Oddly enough, he hadn't felt any familiar chills other than from the cold night air. There were no Dementors.
And the castle... even from the distance he could tell that the cries of warfare, death, destruction and loss were entirely absent. The castle stood quite peacefully. As though the very idea of a battle there had been the product of some strange dream.
Surely he had not slept through the battle? Surely it wasn't over?
Had someone else stepped up and killed Voldemort as Harry had hoped? Ron? Hermione? Or perhaps even Neville?
Or had Voldemort won? If Harry were to return to castle now, would he find every house but Slytherin's destroyed, with Voldemort himself sitting upon what was once Dumbledore's grand chair in the Great Hall?
He secured the cloak around himself, making sure he was entirely covered before he set off for the castle.
It was most peculiar indeed. As he passed the grand, gargoyle-guarded gates, he couldn't see any of the staggering damage Hogwarts had taken during the battle. Every wall and every turret remained intact as though they had never been destroyed in the first place.
Seriously, how long had he been asleep? He was starting to worry that he had slept through the battle now.
As he approached the large oak doors of the castle, he sprang backwards as they swung open, narrowly missing him by inches. His hands flew to his wand, wary of a possible Death Eater.
But none other than Filch the caretaker marched out.
"Those dratted twins!" he snarled. "An empty castle and I still have to clean away all their mess!"
Harry frowned, watching the retreating form of Filch as he scurried away.
He was not stupid. What these events were implying was not too unrealistic, not when he had time travelled before. But he didn't dare hope.
He felt something swell within him at the mention of the twins. If he truly had travelled through time... if this truly wasn't some kind of sick prank...
He slipped in through the oak doors and sped down the corridors of Hogwarts, warmer and cosier than he had ever remembered them.
He stopped dead when Peeves, cackling madly, rounded the corner. Out of sheer habit, Harry stilled and hid behind a suit of armour despite the Cloak he was already wearing.
He revelled in the moment. Here and now, he was living through a time at Hogwarts where the most danger in day-to-day life was being caught up after curfew, snitched out by Peeves.
No stupid wizarding war. No Death Eaters. No running for their lives. No Voldemort.
Still, even for curfew the castle was earily quiet. He remembered what Filch had said about the castle being empty and determined that it was perhaps the summer holidays.
But what year is it?
He hurried to one of the nearby men's bathrooms. He winced as the door bounced against the inside walls from his sheer enthusiasm.
The mirror above the sink gave a sudden yelp as he threw off his cloak.
"Where in Merlin's name did you come from?!"
Harry ignored it, gazing, appalled, at his reflection.
I recognise that damn haircut.
His youthful face told him that he was far younger than he had once been, but what gave away his exact age was the way his hair was set way past his ears at an absolutely unacceptable length. It was a hairstyle that he (and many other boys he knew, now that he thought about it) had kept throughout his entire fourth year before he had the sense to cut it to a much more (by his standards) sensible length during the beginning of his fifth.
Clearly then, this was the summer before his fourth year. Following the events of his third.
First order of business, get a bloody haircut.
Second order of business, urge Ron, Neville, Fred and George to do the same.
Harry stopped thinking. Fred. Harry had only lived with the fact that Fred was dead for a few hours. He hadn't even properly given himself time to grieve, and now...
Now Fred was alive and well again. Still at Hogwarts. Still laughing. Still joking. Still pranking.
And he wasn't the only one.
Remus was alive. A part of Harry wished that he had regressed to his third year instead simply so that he'd get to see him.
Tonks was alive. Harry knew it'd be close to a year before he'd meet, let alone see her, but she was alive. She was breathing. That was all that mattered.
Dobby would be working in the Hogwarts kitchens this year. He'd be able to see him again, hear the elf's annoying little voice again.
Harry stopped dead once again.
Sirius.
Sirius bloody Black.
Harry suddenly felt rather weak at the knees. He had never considered himself religious before, but he unconsciously found himself repeatedly muttering his thanks to God. Was this some sort of second chance? A chance for him redo his school years, save his loved ones and destroy Voldemort once and for all?
Part of him still believed that this was some sort of cruel joke. Like Voldemort would jump out from around the corner and reveal it all to be a sick game, and cackle at him for getting his hopes up.
But even Harry could see how such a scenario would be illogical. He shook his head at his own silliness.
He really had gone back in time.
There were so many things he could fix. So many mistakes he made that could be undone.
He pulled his hand away from his sweating scalp, only just realising how eager he was to see everyone again. He decided that he was too impatient to wait, and without thinking about it too much, he uttered a single name.
"Dobby."
There was a silence. Harry waited with bated breath for the unmistakable pop of house elf apparition, but after what felt like years, he frowned. He tried again.
"Dobby."
Another anognising silence. And no matter how much Harry yearned for it, Dobby would not appear.
Every bit of hope that had more or less been coarsing through his very veins drained almost instantly. His face paled, terrified that he had gotten his hopes up for nothing.
He marched from the bathroom, throwing his cloak back over himself and hurried towards the only place he thought he'd get answers.
Surely, surely, if Dumbledore was alive... wouldn't that be all the proof he'd need?
He was rather surprised to find the entrance to Dumbledore's office already opened, the stone gargoyle having leapt aside for what seemed like hours.
He all but sprinted up the spiral staircase. And when he finally threw open the final door...
He was greeted with an empty office. The enormous, claw-footed desk looked desolate and naked with no one sitting at the end of it.
Not even Fawkes was present.
Harry staggered. Had he been wrong about the whole thing?
He did not know what to think anymore. Frantically, he began to pace around the office, pondering, with no small amount of panic, his next move.
But he stopped dead as he examined, rather absent-mindedly, the portraits of the previous Headmasters upon the walls.
They had been asleep, oblivious to him, but his eyes were locked towards the painting of Armando Dippet.
There was no painting after him.
Harry had seen Dumbledore's portrait at the end of his sixth year. There was no denying that one had been made for him.
But here, it was entirely absent.
Dumbledore's alive!
And just like that, all of Harry's annoyance and indifference towards the man vanished. Dumbledore had died and left Harry with nothing for his coming journey, but he was alive, and could now provide everything that would be needed for the future, everything he hadn't the first time around.
But something made Harry stop.
No. He thought solemnly. Dumbledore was deliberately vague. There was never any intention in giving me the proper information. Never any intention in properly training me for the final battle. He wanted me to die. That was his grand plan.
This realisation left Harry with a very obvious conundrum. What now?
He had already come to the gross realisation that he had never once stepped foot in Hogwarts during the summer holidays between his third and fourth year, let alone that very specific spot he has died in the Forbidden Forest.
It was entirely possible that a duplicate Harry, this timeline's Harry, was fast asleep at Privet Drive, enjoying pleasant dreams of escaping the Dursleys and running away with Sirius as his new guardian.
Oh, and of course, growing out his stupid hair.
He couldn't very well carry out his plans of fixing the future with two versions of himself running amok. It only meant he had to only tell people the truth, that he was Harry from the future.
And was that a wise decision? How would Dumbledore, his plans for the future already so carefully constructed, react to such an enormous wrench being thrown into them? Would he take charge of everything as usual, and kill off both Harrys?
And then there was the obvious dilemma of his own existence in this timeline. Did this mean Voldemort now had another Horcrux?
He raised his hand and touched his scar gently. It hadn't been hurting at all since his arrival. Was it possible that the Horcrux within it was now destroyed due to having taken an Avada Kedavra to the face?
He doubted it. The times his scar prickled during his third and fourth year had not been plentiful. It has happened once a few days before the World Cup, but never on-and-off like he had grown so accustomed to in the last few years.
And how blissful it was. Throughout the Horcrux hunt Harry's scar never stopped hurting. It was like someone was hammering a nail into his forehead constantly. He had never truly gotten used to it either, and had become a far more aggressive and surly person because of it.
Now, his head was quiet, calm. No more consistent pain, no more feeling Voldemort's influence every day, and no more clouded thinking. For the first time in a long while, his mind was clear.
What was he to do? Was it wise to share his situation with Dumbledore? With anyone? Wouldn't it be easier and more practical for him to handle it the situation by himself? Minimising the risk of Dumbledore interfering or taking charge of the situation without truly knowing the severity of what was to come?
And what was the best way to destroy Voldemort? If he were to drastically change the timeline early on, then he'd lose the advantage of knowing what would come next, of knowing Voldemort's exact location during different upcoming dates.
But he couldn't just let the timeline play out the exact same way either, biding his time until the exact moment he could strike. There were still people who needed saving. Cedric Diggory being one of them.
Somehow, he had to find an exact middle-ground. A way to change things little by little, so that the larger events of the future would remain unchanged, but little tidbits here and there would play out better than they had previously.
And this was precisely why Harry would have to be careful who he decided to share his predicament with. The more people who knew about it, the more likely it was the timeline would change too much due to their actions, completely destroying his greatest advantage, his knowledge of the future.
"Bollocks." Harry muttered. Why did it have to be so complicated?
Privet Drive looked as unhomely as ever. Harry had never thought he'd be back here again. It felt like just yesterday he had left with the intention of never returning.
Not only would he be returning, but so too would the Dursleys be once again present.
He had paced the grounds of Hogwarts, finding it incredibly unnerving how empty the castle had been. It had seemed so very odd to realise that the teachers did not, in fact, live at the castle during the summer. Not even Hagrid could be found in his hut, and it seemed that the castle's only visitor had been Filch the caretaker, if only for the sake of keeping Peeves in line.
Perhaps that was for the best. He had been meaning to check up on his possible alternate self anyway.
For if he was going to tell anyone about this, than it would be himself.
He approached the Dursleys front door. The sun had only just risen, and it was around five in the morning. His original plan had been to boldy knock on the door until his irate uncle or aunt opened it. If there was no alternate Harry, he'd simply assume his place in his bedroom. If there was an alternate Harry, then he'd simply have his aunt or uncle lead him up to his room where the alternate Harry would likely be sleeping. There, they could talk.
But what if the alternate Harry himself came down with the Dursleys to see who was at the door? How would the Dursleys react to seeing two versions of him? Would he be making his alternate self's life unnecessarily harder?
But what else could he do? He could not use magic to get into his room due to the Ministry's stupid trace. His room was on the upper floor so there was no getting in through the window.
There was no other choice, and Harry knew himself well. He was a heavy sleeper, and there was no way he would be bothered to get out of bed at five in the morning no matter what commotion he heard downstairs. If this failed, he'd simply have to take a risk and apparate directly into his room. He'd almost splinched himself just trying to get from Hogwarts to Privet Drive so he was less than a little wary of this method.
With no small amount of personal amusement, he pounded on the the door as though it had personally offended him, spamming both the doorbell and the knocker.
After a good few minutes of his fun, he could hear his uncle vehemently cursing as his walrus footsteps approached the front door.
"Do you bloody well know what time it is? We're not accepting anything you blasted fools have to sell!"
The door opened with a click, and lo and behold, Vernon Dursley stood in all his gigantic glory. His hairy mustache twitching upon his purpling face.
"Hello." said Harry pleasantly. "Decided to go out for a nighttime walk."
For a moment, not a word was said. Vernon stood in his ridiculous nightgown, his face ever purpling. Finally he spoke.
"Who the devil are you?"
Harry stopped dead.
"Pardon?"
"Who are you, boy? Why are you at my bloody doorstep this early in the morning? And why are you knocking like some kind of madman?!"
Harry's head was running a mile a minute.
"You don't know who I am?" he enquired.
"Haven't I already said so?" snapped Vernon impatiently. "Out with it boy, or I'm calling the police!"
What now? What had happened? Why didn't Vernon know who he was?
Harry and Vernon stared each other down for a moment.
"Wrong door, sir." said Harry eventually. "I was looking for Miss Figg."
Vernon have give a look that suggested he didn't believe him in the slightest. "She lives on Wisteria Walk." he said sharply. "Down the street on the left."
And Vernon promptly slammed the door right in Harry's face.
Harry took a few steps back, his eyes glued to the shiny silver '4' nailed into the Dursleys front door.
He had gone back in time. That much was obvious from the fact the Dursleys were still living here.
But why hadn't Vernon recognised him? The man has acted as though he'd never met Harry in his life.
Had he been lying? What reason could he possibly have to lie, though?
Or had he been telling the truth? Rather than going back in time, was it possible that Harry had fallen into a completely different version of the world he knew? One where 'Harry Potter' never even existed?
Hermione always said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. A quote from Sherlock Holmes.
But that couldn't be right, could it? If Harry had never existed in the first place, surely Voldemort would still be around tormenting the world, having never been defeated? Surely Harry would have instead arrived in some dystopian version of Britain, one long since taken over by Voldemort and his Death Eaters?
Or had Neville instead become the Boy-Who-Lived? In this strange alternate world, had Neville instead been targeted by Voldemort, his parents cruelly murdered in an attempt to reach him? Had Neville's mother emulated his own, and sacrificed herself for the sake of her child? Thus seemingly killing off the Dark Lord and setting up Neville for a life of unwanted fame?
Or had Neville's mother bene unable to sacrifice herself as Harry's had? Had Neville been mercilessly killed by Voldemort, and defeated later on by someone else?
Or had Voldemort never been defeated at all, and simply hadn't yet carried out his grand plans of wizarding domination? Repeatedly thwarted by Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix?
And if it had in fact been Neville who had instead been targetted, did that mean that Harry's parents... were still alive?
Harry's brain hurt. He wasn't cut out for this sort of deep thinking. He needed Hermione.
But Harry's internal dilemma was spared. He felt a very familiar weight perch itself on his shoulder and lovingly nip at his ear. He stopped dead, hardly daring to breathe.
Very slowly, he turned his head and locked eyes with the snowy owl perched on his shoulder. He could have sworn she was grinning at him.
"Hey, girl." was all he could say, albeit on an incredibly shaky voice, raising a hand and stroking her. Hedwig flapped her wings somewhat excitedly.
He bumped his head against her. "Did you... come from the house?"
Hedwig gave an unmistakable nod. Harry turned back towards the house, noticing the open window where his room normally was.
"Is there... another me in there?"
A pause. Then another slow, but unmistakable nod.
"Could you... wake him up for me?"
Hedwig didn't look like she understood at first. But suddenly she opened her wings and took flight, zipping into the window with relative ease.
It took several agonisingly slow seconds, but eventually, someone poked their head outside the window.
And the moment they locked eyes, a sharp, blistering pain exploded within his scar. The pain was such that he screwed his eyes shut and winced. He could tell the other Harry had felt the same pain, for he heard a yelp from the window.
Harry was the first of the two to open his eyes. Partly because he was far more used to pain in his scar, and partly because he couldn't quite believe the pitch of the yelp he had heard from the window.
And sure enough, the bright green eyes of what was unmistakably a dark-haired and bespectacled young girl stared back at him.