My...third attempt at a Marauder Era story?

First two were *epic* disasters.

But no worry. I think I've gotten better :)

Hopefully.

I'm writing this just after I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 on the 16th of July, 2011. I am so proud. Third day of release. The theatre was crammed to the brim.

So here it is, and review!

Somewhere In Time

By xoxoisabelle

Prologue – The Parcel

On his eighteenth birthday, Harry James Potter received a Pensieve.

It arrived in the mail that was delivered to Grimmauld Place along with letters of congratulations, the usual haul. Everyday Harry was swamped with piles of cream parchment envelopes that owls would slip through the mail slot. He woke up daily and padded out of Sirius' room to see a mountain of envelopes on the front rug.

"MUDBLOODS AND FILTH –"

Harry didn't even bother muttering "Shut up" as he brushed by Mrs. Black, casting a non-verbal Silencing charm on Walburga Black, who sputtered indignantly – silently, of course – as he barely swished his wand, already groaning at the sight of the mail.

He may have been the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and Hero of the Wizarding World, but he was still eighteen years old, just barely of age.

The letter on the top of the pile was decorated with a familiar handwriting – Hermione's. Smiling to himself, he stowed away his wand and tore open the letter on the spot, only pausing to brush a lock of black hair from his eyes.

Harry –

Ron and I will be coming at around three to help with the party preparations, along with the rest of the Weasleys and Fleur. Don't ask "what party". We've been over this, we want to celebrate your birthday with you – your first birthday in which you can finally kick back and relax minus the prospect of potentially being killed by Voldemort.

And in case you've grown out of your dress robes, Ron and I have taken the liberty of getting you new ones.

Love,

Hermione

Harry rubbed his scar almost unconsciously at the mere mention of Voldemort's name. Barely a year ago, he had defeated Voldemort, or Tom Marvolo Riddle, He Who Must Not Be Named. Now he was eighteen. And it was his birthday. And, of course, he had utterly and completely forgotten about the party. He groaned, rubbing the piece of paper exasperatedly between his index finger and thumb.

Now he saw that there was another piece of paper attached. Hoping very much that it contained good news, Harry raised it to his eyes. Another hand had scribbled this segment, one that was a lot messier and a lot more unorganized as compared to Hermione's – Ron's.

Harry –

Hermione and us will be dropping by later, mate. I hope you remembered your own birthday? Ginny's going catatonic. Says she hardly knows what to wear. Anyway, we've invited Kingsley and McGonagall and Aberforth and Luna and Neville and pretty much everyone else.

Oh, and the dress robes were Hermione's idea. Wait till you see what she's picked out.

Ron

Harry had to smile at the part about Ginny, however at the portion regarding his dress robes he had to turn apprehensive, making a mental note to dig up his old, bottle green dress robes – provided he could still fit into them. He doubted that very much. Thinking of what Hermione might have picked out for him, he winced. Even though Hermione was his best friend, he couldn't say he trusted her taste in men's clothing.

Especially when it came to dress robes.

He sighed, re-folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans blearily. Then he noticed the parcel.

It was just beneath the letter he had just read, wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied with white string. It looked fairly new, and on the top was inked – To Harry Potter in great inky splotches. Harry's brow wrinkled, he was sure that they had invited everyone he had known to the party and hence there was no need for the present to be sent on earlier. The handwriting was just barely discernable.

"Maybe it's Luna?" he murmured, more to himself. A note was tucked under the string.

Harry –

You never knew me much, but this is for you.

We love you.

Harry just grew more curious. Who on earth could it possibly be? His rate of unwrapping the parcel grew frenzied, a few clouds of brown-paper bits later he was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a Pensieve.

It looked exactly like the one in Dumbledore's office, a silver bowl, the surface a rippling sheen of water. Hesitantly, Harry touched the water, it shimmered even more insistently when disturbed, like a mirage.

In his hand he clutched a tiny vial that had come in a separate velvet pouch, also inside the parcel. It was labeled '1977'. What could possibly be so important about 1977? What happened? And why did he have to see it? Harry felt utterly conflicted, but he still unplugged the stopper and watched the swirling blue substance pour into the Pensieve. However, even as he poured, it remained at the surface, and did not sink. A little exasperated, Harry swirled it a little. It did not move.

"If you want me to see whatever's inside of you, shouldn't you at least work first?" Harry demanded of no one in particular. His voice reverberated out into silence. Apart from Kreacher, no one lived in Number 12, Grimmauld Place anymore. And Kreacher was currently working on a beef and cheese pie for lunch, so he wouldn't disturb Harry.

Frustrated now, Harry pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "I don't know how you expect me to look into you if you don't work the way normal Pensieves do," He argued with the Pensieve. It did not respond, naturally, but the surface shimmered a little, looking inviting.

"This doesn't make sense," returned Harry. Once again, there was no response. He stared at the Pensieve for a long, long time. The milky blue substance swirled at the top, forming images. A boy and a girl. Hogwarts. Harry's eyes narrowed, and then he spotted his father's face.

"My father?" Harry said aloud. And there it was. James Potter's face stared unblinkingly up at him. If not for the image's hazel eyes, Harry might have mistaken the face for his reflection. He was in Hogwarts robes, and two badges glimmered on his chest – Head Boy? Quidditch Captain? He stared raptly at Harry, unmoving.

"This is getting stranger and stranger," Harry murmured to himself. He disturbed the surface a little, but the mist did not dissipate. It remained stubbornly at the surface, so if Harry tried to bend his head into the Pensieve, he would hit the mist instantly. But what difference did it make?

"I've got it," declared Harry a while later. As usual, there was no response from the Pensieve. "You're – you're not a Pensieve. You're an image-shower. Yes, that's why you're showing me my dad's face. That's not a memory. So I'm just supposed to look at the pretty pictures from 1977 that come up?"

The Pensieve did not speak, but the images swirled again. This time it showed a crystal ball, and a slip of paper floating inside. The paper twisted and turned, then faced Harry. It read – Come in.

What? The Pensieve was now inviting him in? Harry felt even more befuddled and confused now. It didn't make any sense at all. He touched the surface again, and dared to probe a little deeper. It made no difference.

Sighing, Harry bent down and pressed his face into the Pensieve.

It was like plunging headfirst into a basin of cold water. Harry was used to the sensation, but there was something slightly different about it today. The blue mist swirled around him, twisting like a double helix and wrapping him in a cocoon. Harry struck out, something was definitely wrong. He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. His limbs flailed out wildly around him, but it was coming in tighter and tighter –

And then it snapped. It recoiled, like a stretched rubber band. Harry broke the surface, and for a few minutes he just bobbed aimlessly there, floating, his eyes tightly shut and he was breathing heavily. He felt exhausted, like he had just run a marathon.

"Oh, god," He panted. "What just happened?"

Harry opened his eyes, and he glimpsed wide, vast green grounds, sloping crazily up and crazily down. In the distance, he spied a castle – Hogwarts?

Then his eyes widened. He was in 1977 – the year that his father and mother were Head Boy and Girl. And the Marauders – Sirius, Remus, and – Peter. Peter Pettigrew, the traitor. His fists clenched. He was going to march into that castle and yell for the world that Pettigrew was a traitor –

But Pettigrew had died for him. To save his life. And this was a memory, right? That meant he couldn't do anything. But there was still something strange, Harry mused. This was no ordinary memory, he decided, recalling the blue mist that had tried to strangulate him.

In the end he just made up his mind to walk into the castle and see what was going on. He struck out for shore, and clambered weakly, dripping onto the grass. Looking down at himself, Harry saw, that to his surprise, he was in Hogwarts robes. Reaching almost reflexively into his damp robes' pocket, he saw that his wand was thankfully with him.

He twirled his wand and made a few complicated movements – it was a spell Hermione had taught him after the war – and instantly he was warm and dry. He remembered Dumbledore casting a similar spell on him.

Harry stared at the castle in the distance. Somehow, he suddenly felt frightened of what he might find, if his father had truly been as bad as Snape's Worst Memory had portrayed him as. Harry contemplated it from all angles, then it struck him.

He was eighteen. In 1977, his father was seventeen. So he, Harry Potter, was the older one here. He was older than his father. It was certainly a strange sensation.

"But if I'm eighteen," He said aloud, "shouldn't I be able to deal with a seventeen-year-old?" It made him feel significantly better. Sighing in relief, Harry pocketed his wand and started for the castle.

He had barely taken two steps when a tentacle shot out of the lake, wrapped tightly around his torso, and yanked him back into the inky lake.

Done. Review? And I know I'm meant to be on hiatus, I just couldn't resist writing this. Don't expect frequent updates, sorry.

Review!

Xoxoisabelle