Chapter Text
He's trapped in a small place. The body is small, skin too tight, not enough to contain him. He FEELS again. Its agony.
He misses the emptiness.
His mind became a terrifying place, sharp and alien. Caged in his own head, the boy hadn't even noticed how his body adjusted and followed the old patterns. It all felt fragmented. Day and night. On again, off again. Most of the time was spent in his small coffin, because surely Harry was dead? He was dead, it was hell, he was the boy again. Orders, brutal hands, mistakes and no good, awful stomachache-inducing screams. A never ending cycle.
Petunia sighs sharply at his clumsy hands, which are not the size he's normally used to. She swats them with a wooden spoon a few times and his small body shakes.
Why– Was it always–
Straining his memory, Harry attempted to recall if the reality matched the previous one. However all of it seemed jumbled together, blurred to the point that only the memory of his eleventh birthday stood out and shined like a beacon of light amidst murky whisps of his childhood's recollections.
Was the joy of belonging so strong it eradicated all bad, previous experiences? What if he was already starting to forget everything?
Confusion overwhelmed him. He was liberated from his prison only by coincidence.
("You horrible, horrible child!" Harry's face is held in Petunia's cold hands, her sharp nails digging deep into his skin, her face twisted in hatred and agony all at once.
She cries and starts chanting despairingly: "Die, die, die, just DIE!"
Harry laughs. Once he starts, he finds he cannot stop)
That interaction hadn't happened the first time he had been here. He made it happen then and there – he told Petunia how Lily would've hated her even more if she knew how she treated him. Told her how miserable and fake her life really was, no matter how hard she tried to hide or fix it. It was the first time he opened his mouth out of his own volition and not to utter learned, placating responses. Her fervent wish and sudden violence turned out to be a wake up call. That's how he finally realized it wasn't a dream – he was back. Truly.
Realization flooded his brain, as if some kind of barrier had been broken. The green light. Empty, but blissful place and a strange fissure in it. The calendar, hanging in the kitchen, a date of 20th of July, the year 1991. Just before his eleventh birthday.
Harry had been sent back. But why?
Later, while his stomach cramped from hunger and the quiet of the cupboard led his thoughts to wander, he figured it out.
During the nights, when Ron, Hermione and him were on the run and hunting Horcruxes, he had a difficult time sleeping. The danger they were in made death more real than ever. Harry saw it in them – the fear. He didn't want to admit to it, but he was scared too. Scared that they were running in circles while others were dying.
Scared of them dying.
That awful dread clung to his lungs, hastening his breathing almost to the point, where he wondered if running would demand slower breaths. He imagined then, a past where they never became friends. They were safe, safer than with him: a magnet for trouble and death. He would've felt alone and heartbroken, but glad they had lived. Of course, Ron and Hermione often reassured him it was their decision, and so he stopped vocalizing his thoughts on their involvement. He learnt that friends stay by your side and fight for you. Harry was grateful and still felt guilty, but there was nothing he could do to change that, could he?
Until now.
In the days and nights he spent in his cupboard under the stairs, a plan began to form in his head. He remembered all the times he regretted his words, actions; events he couldn't prevent. How often he wished to turn back time. Why was he here, he wondered the first day back and many times after that. Was it punishment? He had to live again and experience all the hardships, despite knowing how it all ended?
No – revelation struck him. He was brought back to fix it. It turned out to be so obvious – that was the kind of grand purpose he expected all along. His knowledge of the future could help him end the war quicker this time. No one –
No one had to die. His mental fog dispersed, and he felt determination burn through him. Hope bloomed in his heart.
It was 24th of July. It was already light outside, when Harry left the house at 7 am. The sky was ashen, hiding behind shredded clouds, which eventually gave up and leaked gentle rain drops. Harry didn't mind them, focused entirely on the street.
A burly man on a bike came into view sooner than on an average day. Harry was glad to see him this early. No one has awoken yet on Privet Street. Although many years passed, he could still recall the neighbours' constant snide remarks regarding his scruffy appearance and rumored bad behaviour. He wasn't eager to listen to them if he didn't have to.
"Good morning, Phil," he greeted the postman as soon as he had been within his earshot. "Anything for me?"
Phil seemed startled by the unexpected inquiry from a child. "Ermm, well... Name?"
"Harry Potter, Sir." It wasn't strange he wasn't recognized — Dursleys kept him mostly out of sight, never mentioning him without prompting. They had to answer questions though, no matter how much they wanted him hidden away.
"Oh yeah. Here you go, young man!" Harry thanked the man and let him go back to his job.
The walk to the house, which he had to spend a one long month in, seemed less daunting with a letter clutched tightly in his hands.