A/N: This is a repost of a story I wrote during October. Anyway, just for some context, I wanted to change Harry's story so that it could be a little grittier, a little darker. There will be some romance ahead for Harry, but it won't be easy. Not great writing...but I hope people enjoy the story. Review if you'd like.

Harry ran through the forest chased by three men. It was dark, and the moon was hidden behind the grey clouds. There was no light but green flashes of curses that counted the seconds. There was no sound but the crunching of tree branches beneath Harry's feet. George and Percy were in front of him a few minutes ago, but Harry could no longer see the pair. He wondered if his friends had found the deaths that were for all of them long overdue. His eyes darted to the left, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Weasley brothers, as he jumped across a felled tree trunk, and into an empty clearing. He saw two silhouetted figures and a red spell catching up to them.

Pointing his wand at the person on the right, Harry shouted, 'Protego!'.

But it was too late, the Death Eater's aim was true, and another Weasley was gone. A wave of melancholy rushed through Harry (one of his last friends was now dead), and in his foolishly brave manner he turned to face his enemies, trying to protect the last remaining Weasley sibling.

But before he could attack, glaring beams of light erupted from behind him, hitting and illuminating the forest. The trees came to life and surrounded the three men. They fought desperately to escape, expending every iota of energy they had, but were nevertheless crushed by the masses of mahogany. George and Harry were safe.

The last Weasley child slung his brother over his left shoulder, and walked heavily towards the house. Harry jogged over to help with Percy's carcass, and together he and George brought the head boy home for the last time. Minerva stood in front of The Burrow: her eyes puffy and red, and her left arm gripping her wand against her thigh as her face melted into a rueful expression. She stared at the three men returning - particularly at Percy, who was once her favourite student. As George and Harry walked past her, she neither reacted nor followed them into the house. The only sounds outside the Burrow were the whisperings of the autumn breeze.

Harry left George alone, who gently laid Percy on the dining table. There was silence as George stood in front of the corpse. Percy and George weren't close before the war, but battle, the weaver of camaraderie, brought the two brothers close. The death of George's last sibling stunned him; he was never this quiet. Even during the worst moments over the years, George would always look for that silver - lining. Harry watched as George mourned in silence; his tears the only visible symptom of his grief. And although Harry never too much cared for Percy, his seeming indifference was not because he wasn't upset, but because there had been so much loss over the last five years, that Harry felt accustomed to the feeling, and thus found the entire episode prosaic.

His focus on the scene before him caused him to miss the bald man sitting on the floor. Arthur was sat with his robe messily open, his wand on his right with his arms hugging his knees; the Weasley patriarch tilted his head upwards to give Percy and George a single look, before dropping his gaze again, staring aimlessly at the red spotted floor - as if nothing was out of place.

Harry thought about everyone he loved that had died as he accompanied George. Ron had been gone for about a year now, and Hermione for four. It wasn't until they both died that Harry noticed that he had been in complete love with Hermione. But the feeling was always deep in his heart, and bolted tight by his fondness for Ron.

He often revisited his memories of the trio, the frivolous times they spent gossiping and laughing together. He most treasured the times they had sitting carelessly in the common room: Hermione teaching Ron about the time a muggle wandered into Diagon Alley: or Ron, frustrated by the ever terrible performances of the Cannons, reasoning loudly that it was because Quidditch referees were going down the drain that his team was always losing.

One of Harry's most vivid memories of his best friends was when Hermione was teaching him wand movements for a water charm in their sixth year. She was sitting behind Harry, lightly holding his wrist, with her index and middle fingers pushing against the back of his hand, guiding his arm and grip. He could remember her brown hair smelling faintly of lavender; her sharp chin resting on his shoulder, and her warm inhales, and exhales of breath, brushing against his right ear.

'Harry are you listening to me? Our finals are tomorrow. If you don't get this right you'll never become an Auror.' Hermione would admonish, pulling her body away and relinquishing all intimacy. She would cross her arms with a stern but endearing frown etched across her forehead. Thinking about that look would always give Harry a smile. There were so many things he missed about his two friends.

Harry had nightmares of their deaths: Hermione hit by a random curse from Bellatrix; Ron, eaten by Nagini, while Harry was unable to help. But the worst dreams were the ones where they were alive again, where he told them how sorry he was. Those he would wake up from and weep.

'The more happiness one feels, the harsher the pangs of despair that follow', thought Harry.

Harry walked up the stairs to the second floor where McGonagall was sitting on a chair beside the steps.

'Is he still...?'

'Yes. But barely.' Minerva replied with a distracted and hollow tone - there were haunting echoes of George screaming and sobbing downstairs that drew McGonagall's attention away.

Harry felt bad for the witch. She never possessed the spirit of a fighter, and she took every death as if it was her personal responsibility. In his school days she would always be so hardheaded and confident - to the point where she would many times wrongfully punish and ignore Harry; watching her descent into insecurity was painful.

Harry carefully pushed open the wooden door, trying his hardest not to make too much noise, and stepped into the room. 'Albus?', Harry whispered, in that way that best friends would ask during sleepovers to check if each other were awake. The room was quiet and peaceful, especially in comparison to the painful cries that rang reverberantly below. '

Harry, my dear boy. Come in', Dumbledore said weakly, sitting up.

They were in Ron's old room. Fawkes hummed a soothing tune as he perched on top of the bed frame, looking at Harry expectantly, for what reason he did not know. Dumbledore was poisoned while they were destroying Voldemort's final Horcrux, and was reaching the last days of his life - not that it mattered: even though Voldemort was mortal again, the Dark Lord had amassed such a powerful army that he no longer had to fight, hiding behind his thousands of Death Eaters. Dumbledore finally looked his age.

The resistance's prospects of victory were overwhelmingly small, and Harry had little hope for the future; theirs were impossible odds. Even though Harry studied tirelessly under Albus' tutelage, he was never particularly powerful, not even close enough to win against Lord Voldemort. Voldemort had the advantage of years, and despite Harry's growth over the war, he could not match the Dark Lord's seventy years of experience. The only way they had survived for so long a period was because what Harry lacked in power he made up for with cunning and ruthlessness. He wasn't above deviously crushing his enemies with trickery.

'Did you manage to acquire the object we discussed?' Albus asked.

Harry looked down and took out the last Time Turner from his pocket. 'I did, but the bloody thing isn't even functional. And Percy died.'

Dumbledore shook his head and looked saddened. After a moment of silence in respect for Percy, Albus made an attempt at standing up, not succeeding until Harry helped and lifted him by his arm.

'Thank you, Harry.' Dumbledore moved decrepitly to the table on the left side of the room, placing the Time Turner inside the Pensieve with trembling hands.

Harry sat on the chair and looked wistfully at a folded and worn-out photograph of Hermione that he always kept in his pocket. It was of her walking down the stairs to the Yule Ball: she looked absolutely lovely that night. He rubbed the photo with his fingers as Dumbledore began to speak.

'The Pensieve is a time traveller. Its power is its ability to transport a consciousness into the past, granted of course, that there is an appropriate memory.' Dumbledore explained 'Harry, will you please retrieve your memory of the battle at the Department of Mysteries, that fateful day when Sirius passed?'

Harry nodded confusedly and tucked away his photograph. Pointing his wand at his right temple, he shut his eyes and dragged his wand ponderously to the right. A silvery liquid materialised in the process. Harry stood up and walked over to Albus, placing his memory, which was still attached to the end of his wand, into the Pensieve.

'Harry, what I'm about to propose is very dangerous. It will be akin to the dangers Tom Riddle faced when he split his soul', Dumbledore said, as his eyes almost seemed to avoid Harry's gaze. There was a long pause, where Dumbledore appeared to be contemplating whether or not to divulge this information to Harry.

'Albus, cut to the chase, what is it you want me to do?', Harry asked impatiently.

Dumbledore began to speak quickly. 'I want to force your consciousness back into your fifth year.' Harry's mouth widened. 'We cannot win the war in this timeline, I'm afraid. And the deaths have been in vain.' Dumbledore said candidly, as he stared with more confidence into Harry's green eyes.

'We underestimated the effect the fall of the Ministry would have. And in doing so have caused so much horror: family, friends, innocents. This is the only option left.'

Harry was stunned by his words. A way to travel back in time? That's why he needed the Time Turner. But even if the Time Turner was functioning it could only travel back in time by a few day at most.

'But that's not possible.' Harry said in disbelief. 'The Time Turner cannot move people through years.'

'Ah. Yes. It cannot move your physical presence through that much time. But the soul is much lighter, you forget. And we have the Pensieve.' Dumbledore examined the Time Turner. 'As I suspected...' He paused, his fingers wrapped around the artifact.

'The wonderful object isn't entirely broken. Your foray into the Ministry all those years ago merely destroyed its measuring faculties. But we now have your memory as a guide.'

Harry didn't know how to take the news. He was excited, yes, but it sounded too good to be true. 'Albus, are you sending me back in time?', Harry asked, almost stammering in that disbelief one feels when given a Midas touch.

'I am too weak to project myself. But you Harry, have the strength to journey back.' Dumbledore smiled, bitter-sweetly. But then his expression changed.

'You must warn me of the terrors to come, Harry, it is imperative that you prepare everyone for the war. The Christmas of your seventh year is the end all. You must win before the timeline touches that day, or Voldemort will forever be victorious.' Dumbledore warned sharply.

Harry processed his instructions and started thinking about how he could stop the world from falling into this terrible reality. Leaving his friends behind to fight alone, perhaps, or to stop Dumbledore from being poisoned. He knew he could speed up his search for the Horcruxes, but at the same time, the real danger was in the numbers that Voldemort possessed.

'This magic can only happen once, Harry, and time cannot be changed again. You understand?', Dumbledore asked, with a sullen and heavy voice.

Harry nodded, his head running with the thrill of how he would see his friends again, and his heart hopeful once more, for the first time in years. Harry wasn't concerned with risks, or danger, he just wanted to his friends; he wanted Hermione.

Dumbledore wrapped his arms around him, patting his back as he whispered, 'Good luck, my dear boy. I'm sending you back as far as I can. I'm hoping you'll take the opportunity to rescue a certain Animagus.' Dumbledore looked at him with his twinkling blue eyes and winked. Harry eyes brightened in realisation of what Dumbledore meant, and he smiled understandingly.

They broke off their embrace. Over the long years they had become family, with Dumbledore as his surrogate grandfather and Harry as his surrogate grandson. Harry knew that this was the last time he would ever meet this iteration of Dumbledore: the Dumbledore he shared so many conversations with; the Dumbledore that taught him everything he knew. He was disheartened by this fact.

Not many people were left. Minerva, George, Arthur, were some of the only other members alive. Harry did not bid goodbye to them, because he didn't feel he needed to. He had always rejected this reality, in the same way the man challenged in pecuniary matters thinks himself but a temporarily embarrassed millionaire. A part of Harry knew this was all real, but the other part of him, which never accepted this truth, was spurred now by Dumbledore's offer, by the chance to make sure this reality is nothing but a dream.

He moved over and lowered his face into the Pensieve while Fawkes bursted into flames above him; the phoenix finally giving himself over to Thanathos. The Time Turner started to click as Fawkes' ashes fell into the shimmering memory, and Dumbledore began to chant an incantation behind him. The room disappeared as the Pensieve drew Harry's soul back into his fifth year - sucking the Boy Who Lived through time and space, back to the night where Voldemort first revealed himself to the public, back to the night where Voldemort first began his reign of evil, back to a time where he could make a difference again.