Chapter Text
What are you supposed to feel after a war?
Harry Potter found himself staring at The Elder Wand, its rough knobs pressing into his palm. Hermione and Ron sat on either side of him, uncaring of the dried blood on his jacket.
Dead.
He was finally dead, the purist bastard that took everything from him; his parents. And where had that left him? Alone, with the Dursleys. No, Voldemort didn’t just take away his parents; he took away his childhood.
Harry didn’t expect to have a moral dilemma after killing the man that made his life a living hell, but here he was. Did he have to have killed him? Wasn’t this just another way they were similar? He thought about what Olivander said about their wands; they were brothers.
Hermione gently squeezed his shoulder as Ron rested his head on the other. The moral dilemma could wait. He was alive, and so were his best friends. This was enough. He just wanted the whole purism thing to end.
He snapped the wand into two, splinters flying in his face as he tore it apart.
Neither Ron or Hermione so much as flinched.
He tossed the two pieces into the abyss below, and squeezed Ron and Hermione’s hands.
Then everything went black.
…
It was as if he never blacked out at all, he simply appeared again. He was screaming, he didn’t know why. A large hand was pulling his hair so hard he could feel some of it falling out. His glasses were cracked like they hadn’t been since…
You have got to be kidding me.
He stopped screaming, but everything was still loud. That old, familiar oaf of a man kept on yelling.
“-OUR NORMAL, PERFECT SON’S BIRTHDAY, RUINED BY THE DISGUSTING LIKES OF YOUR KIND-”
And just like that, he was tossed into his good old cupboard under the stairs like he was a sack of potatoes.
Harry’s memory was pretty good, and combined with the sense of deja vu, a flashback came to him. He had screamed and pounded his fists on the door, in the dark with hot tears in his eyes, angry at the injustice of it all. The only thing that left him with was bruises on his hands that refused to heal until…
Until he first went to Diagon Alley.
Harry sat up and tugged on the lightbulb’s string, and just like last time, it wouldn’t turn on for burning out the last time he used it. Oh well. Its not like he needed it. He spent a decade trapped here. Harry could find anything in here blindfolded and with his hands tied.
He was surprisingly skilled at wordless, as well as wandless magic. He thought back to “today” in the other life, where he Vanished something close to a whole glass wall out of pure emotion.
The other life, oh that pesky thing. He didn’t get the chance to ponder his morality and this- this sci-fi thing is thrown at him? He sighed and scratched the back of his head, and winced when he remembered that huge meat sack Vernon had so recently tore at it. But no matter. Harry had learned that in any situation, he got the best results from thinking, “What Would Hermione Do?” Well, she would think about it, obviously. But Hermione’s strong suit was always academic, and this was…what? Philosophical? Theoretical? Harry thought his head would hurt after this in more ways than physically.
What did Hermione do when she didn’t understand something? Break it down. That’s what she had said when Ron couldn’t figure out his Herbology reading in second year. Well, first, Harry broke the Elder Wand. Splendid. Next, he was sent back in time to Dudley’s eleventh birthday. Then, everything had gone accordingly except for his actions. Harry frowned. He once read one of Sirius’ papers on Muggle Studies written by a renowned philosopher in Grimmauld Place, but he had the sneaking suspicion Sirius only owned it out of spite to his parents. The paper discussed the Butterfly Effect, and Harry wondered how not pounding on the door would affect the future. His hands simply wouldn’t hurt, perhaps?
So Harry knew the outcome of any and all actions limited to the other life. That would be useful, but he must be careful. He couldn’t ask Hermione too many questions once he met her again. She’d be too smart not to be suspicious. What if his actions differed from last time? He wouldn’t know the effect then.
This whole thinking thing was turning tedious. What Would Hermione Do? She would keep track of all her past memories, obviously, if she wanted to retain the knowledge of each outcome. But that would grow even more tedious. Harry didn’t even have any paper, let alone a writing utensil. But then he realized something that would save him a lot of stress: if, in theory, he had the memory of a seventeen year old, and he could remember such a small instance as Ron’s Herbology reading in second year, surely he would remember everything for just a bit longer, just until he got to Hogwarts. Harry decided to test himself, and swore to everyday, for his sake if nothing else. November 2nd, 1989: Harry falls in the mud and stands up as clean as seconds before, March 17th, 1990: Harry gets a screaming when Petunia catches him prodding at his scar in the reflection of the car window, August 31st, 1990, November 4th, February 13th, April 29th, on and on and on it went, from meals to beatings to tying his shoelaces.
So he wouldn’t have to worry about that. But what to do when the letters-
The godforsaken letters.
From a third-person perspective, it truly was awful they could get away with addressing the letters to “The Cupboard Under the Stairs.” What good were Aurors if they couldn’t handle something like child protection?
This realization struck him badly. Did any other than Dumbledore know? About his home life? McGonagal must’ve known, right? No, she was too sensible to not understand the severity of child abuse.
Abuse.
Harry groaned into his hands. He spent years of his adult life coming to terms with everything that happened to him, and he didn’t even use the chance to tell anyone? He wondered if the whole time-traveling thing gave him critical thinking skills.
He could hear the Dursleys eating, the cluttering of plates and the scrape of silverware. It was a long day of thinking, and now Harry understood why Hermione was so tired all the time. He would appreciate her so much more now.
Harry transfigured his old, beat-up figurines into simple toiletries. He brushed his teeth and cast a few cleaning charms on himself, as well as his clothes and the cupboard. He sighed, and fell asleep.