Author's Note

This is a dark AU with dimensional travel, containing graphic violence, scenes of intense trauma and sexual situations. If this isn't your bag, get out now.

Diverges from Canon at the end of 5th year.

Revised as of 5/15/2019. Special thanks to my Betas, AussieClaire, shaqb4, and Ceadeus for all their help. Hopefully I will bring the whole story up to a decent standard.

Harry lay on his side in a ditch, the gritty dirt sticking to the blood soaked into his robe. How much of it was his was impossible to say. He tried to control his breathing, straining his magical senses. The ditch only provided slight protection, and he needed to move. Soon.

They were grouped up close to each other, so it was hard to the determine exact number, but there were two clusters, one 15 feet dead ahead and a smaller one just 8 feet away at 4 o'clock.

Breath in.

They weren't pressing him, which meant they had called for reinforcements. Anti-apparition and portkey wards were up, and he didn't have the time to break through them. His only way out was straight through.

Breath out.

He pressed his wand into the ground, silently weaving a spell into the loose soil. It wouldn't last long, but he only needed a second.

The ground came alive a heartbeat later, earthen hands shooting out of the earth to grab at his hunters. Harry rolled out of the ditch and shot to his feet, eyes glued on the closest knot of enemies. There were three of them, clad in dark robes and white masks, behind some sparse cover. They were pointing their wands at the ground, trying to destroy the hands gripping their hems.

One of them, shorter than the rest, spotted him despite the darkness and raised their wand.

They were far too slow. Harry hit the Death Eater with a sickly red spell, and the figure doubled over. Harry ran, ignoring the flaring pain in his side as the other death eaters notices their comrade's plight. Suddenly, he exploded in a mess of boiling blood, and the others shrieked as they realized what was coating them.

Using their distraction, Harry cast two blasting hexes straight at their centers of mass. They were reduced to red pulp in seconds. 3 down, 4 to go.

But before he could turn his attention to them, he noticed a shimmer out of the corner of his eye. Only his seeker reflexes, honed over years of battle, allowed him to bend backwards as the dark spell hurdled towards him. It still clipped his shoulder, blinding him with agony. His basilisk armor absorbed the worst of it, but it still shattered bone and ruptured flesh.

He swept his wand in a tight arc, and a shockwave rippled forward. The Death Eater hidden by an invisibility charm was knocked off balance and his second spell going wide. Harry shoved his wand forward, his mind screaming 'Argentum lancea!' conjuring a bright silver spell that flashed through the Death Eaters chest with a spray of blood and bone, killing him instantly.

But he had given his fellows time to regroup, and for more of them to arrive. The Death Eaters advanced in staggered formation, firing killing curses and dark hexes wildly. He felt more magic coming from up the field, so he sprinted in the opposite direction. He could make out a building, hidden in a small thicket of trees about 100 yards away.

Harry bobbed and weaved as the spells flashed around him, a few of the killing curses passing close enough for him to feel the sinking stillness. He cast blasting curses over his shoulder, but they were gaining.

He needed to clear them off if he was going to get to cover.

40 yards from the building, which appeared to be an abandoned cottage, Harry whispered "Parva Sole," He thrust his wand up, and a bright sphere sailed into the air.

Under normal circumstances, Harry would have magically shielded his eyes, but he didn't have time or power to spare. Instead, he screwed them shut and tilted his head down.

Exactly three seconds after being cast, the orb detonated into a blinding miniature sun. Harry could see the light even through his closed lids and felt the heat on the back of his neck. Several of the Death Eaters screamed as their eyes were seared, and he felt them fall to the ground. Even blind, they kept casting wildly, but finally Harry made it to the cabin.

He leaped, crashing through the cobwebs in the empty windowsill, and landed heavily on the dusty floorboards.

His shoulder sent a spike of agony at the rough treatment, but Harry pushed the feeling down. He peeked through a small gap in the cottage's wall, and watched as the Death Eaters scrambled back, several limping or crawling. Suffer, you bastards. Harry thought viciously.

His glee was dampened when he spotted more dark clad figures taking up defensive positions further up the field, and more were streaming in from all sides.

Harry pulled back, not wanting to see. It was pointless, anyway. He was outnumbered, wounded and penned in. This would be his last battle. Shame. He'd always loved the sunrise, and now he'd never see another.

oooOOOooo

"These violent delights have violent ends."

Harry would vehemently deny that any part of his life had been a delight, but he was a creature of violence and death at the end of things. He had claimed his first life before he could walk, killed again at 11, took down the basilisk that would become his armor when he was 12. As he grew, his body count grew with him.

Dumbledore hadn't seen it like that, of course. He had wanted so badly for Harry to be some sort of savior, a warrior of light leading a righteous battle against darkness. Harry had wanted that too, and managed to convince himself he wasn't a monster, a reaper in human flesh.

That dream had died at the end of his fifth year, when he had confidently marched his friends into a trap and gotten his godfather, the person who believed in him and offered him hope for a better life, killed in the process.

He could have stayed at the Dursleys, slipping into deep depression and stewing over his inadequacies, but he found a solution: action. Specifically, the violent murder of everyone with a Dark Mark he could find, and a few others besides.

He'd slipped his Order babysitters and gone hunting for Death Eaters. He found that despite his lack of formal combat training, killing came just as naturally to him as flying did. His rage eventually cooled, and in the crucible of near constant battle, his power grew. By the end of the summer, he had stripped away all that he once was in favor of turning himself into a brutal weapon.

The Order and his friends had been appalled and tried to convince him to abandon all he'd learned and pretend that this war wasn't resting solely on his shoulders. But as bodies piled up in the streets and Harry was the only one to make any headway against Voldemort's forces, the complaints fell away. Harry spent all his time at Hogwarts learning as much as he could. Wards, enchantments, potions, even mind arts were his curriculum, and the DA morphed into a true army under his command. The Ministry tried to recruit him, but Harry spurned them, blaming them for not taking action sooner, and generally being more concerned with appearing to battle the dark forces than actually stopping them.

The war developed naturally, with the Ministry falling and Voldemort creating a new, pureblood, government. Dumbledore kept Hogwarts as the last beacon of light, while Harry and his friends bloodied themselves outside the walls. The Order lost many, but the biggest blow came when Albus died at the hands of a mind controlled student. Then, Voldemort attacked the school in what became known as the First Battle of Hogwarts.

Harry lead the teachers, the Order and any students willing to fight out to the gates to meet the Dark army head on. The battle was fierce, claiming Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Bill, Fred and Arthur Weasley, just to name a few. Ron Weasley lost an eye, Luna Lovegood three fingers, and most of the Order's remaining adult fighters were killed or seriously injured.

But amidst the smoke and bloody haze of battle, Harry stood against Voldemort. The younger man was magically outclassed, but he was vicious and fought without thought for his own life, and in the end, it was just barely enough. He left the murderer of his parents a charred husk on the field.

It should have been his crowning achievement, something to tell his grandchildren about as he basked in eternal victory.

Thinking they had already won, the light rested on their laurels and let the enemy regroup.

Death Eaters still controlled the government and had no plans of quietly laying down their wands, and to make matters worse most of Voldemort's inner circle survived. Bellatrix Lestrange took up her master's torch, vowing to continue the war no matter the cost. And so, victory slipped out of Harry's hand.

It took a year for Harry to track the Dark Lady down and kill her, but it didn't matter. Lucius Malfoy took the mantle next and spent the next few years slowly wearing down the Order, before he launched the second attack on Hogwarts. Bled dry by a war of attrition, the light crumbled, and the school was lost along with nearly two thirds of their number.

Harry again isolated the enemy leader and slew him, but it was pyrrhic. Without their base, the remaining fighters were hounded at every turn. Draco Malfoy took his father's place, and for the fourth time, Harry hunted and killed the Dark Lord, only for another to take his place.

Harry James Potter was 27, and he was the last person fighting the war. Even he had admitted to himself that his cause was hopeless. But he had nothing else. All his friends had died over the years, and the surviving Order members fled the country years ago. Harry had begun a campaign against the newest Dark Lord, Augustus Rookwood, but the savvy bastard had hidden himself away and sent out hordes of Death Eaters to hunt him down.

This was how he came to the field. Harry had interrogated a Death Eater, who revealed a new secret base where Rookwood was hiding. It had been a trap, the noose finally slamming shut. Harry was a skilled hand at entrapping his enemies and had no illusions that he could escape this turnabout.

The end was nigh, but Harry had no intention of going to the next great adventure quietly or peacefully.

oooOOOooo

Harry watched out of the crack in the cottage wall as more dark figures slid out around the field. A firm count was impossible with the darkness, but at least a hundred were milling around the little cottage.

He was waiting for them to attack, to swarm against him so he could die bathing in blood. Maybe Rookwood would stick his head out so Harry could cut it off, but he doubted the man would be so reckless.

Harry reached down into the bottomless bag tied to his thigh and fished out a small unbreakable vial with a silver liquid sloshing around. Harry had found it in his studies years ago, bearing the unassuming name 'Petrove's Decoction'. It gave an instant surge of strength, magical and physical, and deadened sensation. Petrove was able to fight on despite being cut in half, and only died when a German Hit Wizard vaporized his head.

Of course, later examinations and tests of the potion showed that it was fatal anyway, but it would give Harry one hell of a final push. Now, all that was left was for them to make their move.

He pondered what his legacy would be. In England, he'd been so thoroughly demonized that news of his death would result in mass celebrations. But abroad, perhaps he'd be remembered more fondly, as someone who fought endlessly for what he believed in, even if it ended in tragedy. Perhaps those surviving allies would raise a glass in his memory.

Oh, who am I kidding? The epitaph will be 'Harry Potter, damned fool who threw his life away for nothing and couldn't win a war to save his soul' he thought to himself with a wry smirk.

Maybeaybe in the afterlife he'd be reunited with his friends and family, and that was a comforting thought. And even if he didn't, he was exhausted. Worn down to the bone. An eternity of nothingness would be bliss in comparison to all he had experienced.

He unscrewed the cap and held it ready near his mouth. The Death Eaters outside had gone oddly still, holding well out of spell range.

Then, he felt a strange buzz of magic shudder around him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he cast his eyes around. Above him, golden threads of energy swirled into a dome. Harry's eyes went wide.

He swiftly replaced the decoction into his bag and went outside. The Death Eaters were all pointing their wands at the sky, and the magic barrier was nearly complete. They must have set it in advance, knowing he would go to the only cover available when outnumbered. It was a powerful containment spell, and once in place it would be unbreakable, even by him. If they finished, they could kill him in any number of ways, all at no risk to themselves.

Rage nearly blinded him. These bastards had taken so much, now they sought to deny him even an honorable death!

"Spineless cowards," he growled, raising his wand. He couldn't stop the spell's progress, but he could certainly throw a wrench in their plans.

Hermione would have used some obscure arcane chant to try and reverse the spell, and Ron would have charged the Death Eaters, a war cry on his lips.

But neither of those approaches would result in the most fatalities: that would be to pour raw magical power into the ritual. This would cause an overload of the spell matrix, which would collapse, releasing its energy in an explosion equivalent to a small nuclear bomb.

So obviously that's what Harry did.

His wand emitted a huge column of green magic, streaking up and hitting the delicate gold threads, engorging them.

Harry tapped directly into his magically core, expanding his life force in one last 'fuck you' to the forces of Darkness, and smiled. They would see this explosion miles away.

The Death Eaters panicked, trying to stymie him by pulling their magic back and making vain attempts to stabilize the ritual. But the magic dome glowed ever brighter, and collapse was imminent. Harry felt rather than saw several Death Eaters launching killing curses at him.

It didn't matter.

Just as the first sickly green orb struck him, the golden threads snapped, sending shockwaves precipitating the explosion that struck a millisecond later, obliterating 3 square miles of fields in a single deafening instant.

oooOOOooo

Sunlight was trying to break through Harry's closed eyelids, and there was a bird shrilly singing nearby. Harry grumbled and tried to roll over, only for pain to shoot through his body at the movement, forcing his eyes open.

He was lying on his back, looking up at a blue sky with only a few wispy clouds. Panic surged through his body.

Out in the middle of an open space, no defenses or barrier, he was a sitting duck!

Harry tried to sit up, but his body simply refused to move. Now, the panic nearly overwhelmed him. He tried to steady himself and painfully slowly twisted his head, looking for the Death Eaters that were surely bearing down on him.

What he saw confused him: a simple field, somewhat overgrown, and a cottage in a state of disrepair. A small thicket of trees, from which that damn birdsong was coming from. Other than that it, was completely empty and peaceful. Something was niggling at the back of Harry's mind, and he tried to remember how he came to be here.

After a few foggy moments, the events of the night came rushing back to him. The Death Eater trap, the running battle, the ritual he had sabotaged. The explosion should have leveled this entire area, but it seemed exactly the same as when he had arrived.

Was he dead?

He had not expected death to be so painful, in that case. His shoulder was throbbing with agony where it touched his armor, at least three broken ribs, with four more cracked, and what the hell did he do to his right hand? With a few painful movements and a downright alarming clicking noise from his neck, Harry managed to get a look. The skin was blackened and flaking off, and several fingers were bent at odd angles.

My wand must have exploded. He realized numbly. His holly and phoenix feather, his first entry into the world of magic, reduced to splinters.

Tears came unbidden to his eyes, but he blinked them away. He had lost so much, what was this in comparison? He had a spare wand. But he needed to move to grab it and currently, that wasn't happening.

He knew he wasn't under a spell as he felt no foreign magic. Actually, come to think of it, he didn't feel any magic at all.

Harry closed his eyes and pulled his mind into a meditative state Albus had taught him a lifetime ago and looked inward at his magical core. Normally, it was like a bonfire the same green as his eyes, roaring blindingly bright.

Now, it was a flickering ember, dim and weak against a black expanse. Harry's eyes shot open.

Oh right. I tapped it directly to overload the containment spell. Of course it's nearly empty. Harry thought sarcastically. It would take time for his core to recover, but Harry was flatly unwilling to sleep in this damned field where anyone could stumble upon him.

He slowly and laboriously reached his left hand into the bottomless bag strapped to his thigh and pulled out a triple strength healing potion mixed with a potent adrenaline booster, designed by Severus to get a wounded fighter back in the action immediately. It came with risks, mostly that it exacerbated existing wounds and dulled other stimuli, but Harry was accustomed to it. Due to the red coloration and effects, the troops named it 'Devil's Blood' much to Severus's annoyance.

What felt like hours later, his hand was finally raised to his lips and pulled the cap off with his teeth. Then he poured the ruby red liquid down his relaxed throat. It tasted like liquid steel and burned the whole way down, but his wounds itched as the potion went to work closing them.

The booster portion took another few seconds to activate. A surge of fire shot up his chest, sending his heart into a pounding frenzy. His muscles spasmed with new energy.

He let his breathing even out, then moved.

He reached over to his bag and pulled out a small wooden charm on a length of string. It was a portkey to his only remaining safehouse, and he needed to get out of here. But first, he needed his wand.

It was sealed in a protected holster on the inside of his right calf. He had to reach around with his left hand, not an easy task by any means. He fumbled at the buckle that would release his wand, and after a moment's fiddling, he was able to pry the stubborn mechanism open.

His second wand had been crafted by a shady black market wandmaker during his first summer, when he'd been trying to avoid detection on his monitored wand. 10-inch, rosewood, with a phoenix tail feather core, good for transfiguration and animation magic. It wasn't as attuned to him as his Holly wand, but it did the job.

It nearly slipped out of his fingers as he tried to grip it, and just the thought of casting anything made him want to throw up.

"Asphalt aversions," he whispered, and the portkey activated, spinning him violently. He landed on the hard, concrete floor, and his injuries shrieked in pain. He lay on the floor for a minute, trying very hard not to throw up the potion he had just ingested, before painfully hauling himself upright.

It was agony, his limbs all felt like they were made of lead. The room was pitch black, by virtue of being underground. "Lumos," he whispered, and a faint light crept out of his wand.

He had found this place, an old bunker from the blitz, about six months ago. It was on the outskirts of London, buried in an abandoned section of the tube. He'd added dozens of protection wards and generally spruced the place up with a bed and his stockpile of equipment. Now, looking around, it was just barren walls and a dusty cot. Exactly like it was when he'd found it.

Nothing was making any sense, and he had a pounding headache that wasn't helping. Possibilities swirled about his head, but things were getting foggier every moment, and he knew he was on the verge of collapse.

He had nowhere else to go, and he was fairly sure this place was secure. The main problem with security was once the enemy knew where you were, all the wards in the world would only slow them. The door was still sealed, and the thick layer of dust on everything meant that no one else called this place home.

It would have to do.

Harry collapsed heavily on the cot, finally gaving into to the pressure and let his eyes slam shut.

oooOOOooo

Harry's mouth felt like a cotton ball, and he leaned up instinctively to hack over the edge of the cot. He blinked his eyes, surprised he'd had no nightmares that night. The night terrors had been his constant companions for at least a decade. But who was he to complain if they decided to give him a reprieve?

He checked his magical core and was pleased to see it had recovered moderately, now a small fire. Far from fully recovered, but he would take what he could get.

He groaned as he shifted slightly. He felt better than he had, but that still didn't mean he felt good. His ribs ached with every breath, and his shoulder itched something fierce. From both this and the progress of his core, he guessed he had been asleep for at least 15 hours, perhaps longer.

Experimentally, he pushed himself up, and was pleased when he managed it with only a minor flare of pain. Difficult, but not impossible. He had learned the difference well a long time ago. He placed his boots on the concrete floor and lifted his wand.

"Lumos," the word came out with much more confidence and strength, and the light was near blinding, filling up the small bunker completely. He blinked, pain flaring in his cornea, but cast his eyes around.

There was no sign he had ever been here before, which was concerning. Now that his faculties were back, he had many questions. How was he alive? Where was he, or perhaps more to the point, when was he?

During his final moments, he had been exposed to both the massive amount of energy from the failed containment spell detonating, exposing his magical core, and being struck by a killing curse.

None of those forces dealt with time directly, but with that much energy in one place it was impossible to say for certain what would happen. If he was flung backwards in time, then that must mean he had always been here, and so had failed to prevent all the losses suffered.

There was another option: dimensional travel. It had only ever been theorized by researchers, but there was nothing in magic to disprove the idea of alternate realities.

But Harry had more pressing matters. Firstly, healing himself.

He flicked his wand, and the ball of light travelled over to an empty light socket. He started with his right hand, magically straightening his broken fingers and setting them. The pain made him grimace, and the unnatural feeling of his bones shifting under his skin was unpleasant.

It was finished quickly, and Harry experimentally moved all his fingers in sequence to see if there was any pain or lack of movement. His ring finger was unable to bend past the first knuckle, so he sent another jolt of healing magic to fix it.

With that done, Harry slowly stripped out of his armor. Fashioned from the basilisk he had slain in his second year, dyed black, it had seen Harry through nearly every battle. At the many points it had been breached, it was stitched together with silver thread, a scar the same as that which decorated his body.

Snape and a specialist craftsman in France had fashioned 12 suits just like this one, and they had been passed down through various members of the Order throughout the war. It had cost a mid-sized fortune to get them all enchanted and created, but it was a small price to pay in his mind for safety and security.

Harry was unsure what happened to the others, but he was fairly sure only one other full suit remained in the possession of Cho Chang, the rest either destroyed or captured by the forces of darkness.

Basilisk scale was naturally magic resistant, light and flexible. The suits could be worn underneath robes or even loose muggle clothes. But the hide itself could not be enchanted, so the soft inner lining was heavily spelled with temperature regulation, shock absorption and even a low-level regeneration spell.

Harry practically lived in the suit, and it had a smell to match. He cast a quick Scourgify, feeling the spell bite into his skin. The wound on his shoulder looked like pulped meat, and Harry turned his attention to it first. He swiftly closed the wound and knit the shattered bone back together. The whole area was still raw and tender, and it would take time for it to fully heal. It would leave a scar, but it was just another to add to his collection. There were dozens of them, dotted around his entire body. Some large, some small, but he remembered all of them.

His ribs were next, and than an assortment of other smaller scrapes and bruises. Just as he finished closing a large cut on the side of his face, his stomach growled loudly.

When was the last time I ate? Harry pondered, It was before the ambush, so that's at least 18 hours ago, not counting how long I was passed out in that field.

He grabbed three ration bars from his bag and ate them as quickly as he could, not noticing the chalky taste or disgusting flavor. He washed it down with another healing potion before slipping back into his armor.

He settled back into the cot, shifting to get comfortable.

Here's the plan: sleep and heal, then head out into the world to determine exactly where and when I am and strategize from there. Harry thought to himself. His wand in a loose grip, he once again fell asleep.

oooOOOooo

Harry was sitting in front of the hearth in his private room in Hogwarts, the chair sagging under his weight. A glass of firewhiskey hung limply from his hand. He was staring at the flames, when suddenly a voice broke him from his stupor.

"Ah, I see you've finally decided to join us," crooned a soft, slippery voice. One he knew well.

Voldemort.

Harry was out of his seat in an instant, spinning around to take in the small, motley group lounging around his sitting room.

Voldemort sat in the middle, his pallid, snake like face besmirched with a smile and painted in orange from the fire. Next to him, Bellatrix Lestrange sat on the floor, stroking her master's arm and cooing. Lucius Malfoy and Draco were sitting together at a little end table, a chessboard between them. But they were only looking at him, eyes filled with… happiness?

Harry snapped his wrist, summoning his wand to his hand. But it did not come. Voldemort stood smoothly, ignoring Bellatrix. Harry bared his teeth and took a step back.

Voldemort chuckled "Oh, none of that. After all, you can't kill us twice, now can you?" he said almost gently, and Draco chuckled in the background.

"Where am I? How are you all here?" Harry demanded, fear seeping into his bones. The assembly of former Dark Lords all rolled their eyes. Draco clucked his tongue.

"Merlin, Potter, do you really need it spelled out? You're dead. Deceased. Kicked the bucket. This is the afterlife," the prick said snidely.

Harry's breath was coming fast, and the room seemed to spin. The fire was dying, and the shadows crept closer.

"If I'm dead, why are you lot here? I hated every single one of you, and the feeling was mutual," Harry said, panicked. Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed her horrible, cackling laugh. "Silly boy! We are your peers, the only ones who ever understood you. You're one of us," she said in a high voice.

That caught Harry's attention, and his voice was cold as he bit off his automatic response. "I am nothing like you."

Lucius stood and regarded him with his cold eyes. "There is no room for self-deception here, Potter. You may have fought against us, but you were nothing like those other pathetic wizards you called friends. All the lives they claimed hung over them, but you?" Lucius smiled without humor. "You could kill a man before breakfast and forget about it by lunch."

The light was growing faint.

"I killed for necessity, not for pleasure like you," Harry spluttered, wondering if this was hell. Suddenly, pale thin arms wrapped around him, and a warm, soft body pressed into his back.

"Liar," Bellatrix breathed into his ear.

Harry tried to move, to throw her off, and disgust filled him at the thought of this bitch touching him, but he was paralyzed. She ran her sharp fingernails over his chest, sending shivers up his spine.

"Are you going to tell me you didn't enjoy killing Rabastan?" she whispered breathily, her mouth so close to his ear the moist heat from her breath sent goosebumps down his body. "You didn't enjoy watching the fire consume him, watching as his flesh dripped off his bones?" Bellatrix ground her body into Harry, her voice thick with lust. Draco was then in front of him, so close that Harry could see the specks of green in his blue eyes.

"You didn't enjoy my death? You weren't jumping with joy as you crushed my head, finally ruining my pretty face?" Draco reached out and delicately brushed Harry's hair back, revealing his lighting bolt shaped scar, his fingers ghosting over it.

The light had faded so much Harry could barely make out Draco's smug smirk. Bellatrix rolled her hips into him, and bit his ear hard enough to draw blood, and it dripped down his neck, strangely cold.

Voldemort laughed, but Harry couldn't see him. "Oh, you'll come around Harry. You'll accept your place with us eventually. After all, we have eternity."

"No no no no no no no NO NO N-!" Harry yelled, but Bellatrix's hand tightened around his throat trapping the words in his throat. All of them were laughing the sound filled his mind drowned everything out and-

Harry shot upright on the cot, cold sweat dripping down his face, close to hyperventilating. He wildly cast his eyes around the room, still lit by his fading spell in the old empty socket. He clutched his wand tightly and huddled up on the cot, pressing his back against the solid concrete, so unlike the soft body of that bitch Lestrange.

He sat there for what felt like hours, letting the tension slowly bleed out of his body, and his heart to return to a normal rate.

Finally, he took a breath, centering himself. He laughed shakily.

I knew my brain could conjure horrors, but Lestrange spooning me has to take the cake, Harry thought sardonically.

Nightmares had been his constant companion for nearly a decade, but that didn't stop them from, as a drunken man on the tube had once told him, 'freaking his fucking balls off'.

He ran a quick inventory of his faculties.

Shoulder, stiff but workable, ribs nearly healed, hand, tender, but can cast. Magical core… hummm, maybe 50%. Doable as long as I don't have to fight an army.

I really shouldn't jinx myself. Not with my track record.

Occlumency barrier, fully working, Harry nodded to himself, and stood smoothly. Now, it was high time he figured out exactly what happened to him.

He conjured a mirror and grimaced at his appearance. He was covered in blood and grime, and his features had a certain gauntness to them. Harry had grown into a very attractive man, but the war had stripped him of most of his charms. The lack of glasses still startled him, as Madam Pomfrey had fixed his eyes in his sixth year. His body was thin and wiry, all muscle with not an ounce of fat. His armor hung slightly off his frame, and he was in desperate need of a haircut and a tub of shampoo. He looked like a particularly down-on-his-luck axe murderer.

Well, it's not as if the Death Eaters cared if I looked like shit, he justified to himself. But if he was going to go out in public, he needed to be presentable, and glamors could only do so much.

Harry blasted himself with the strongest cleaning spells he dared and watched as most of the dirt and blood vanished, along with most of his weathered, old cloak. Harry pulled the rag off and vanished it. It was useless to him now.

Next, he trimmed his hair down, and spelled it clean as best he could. He removed the five o'clock shadow with a small flick, and tried to remove what he was sure was a ripe smell as best he could.

Next, he reached into his bag and retrieved a small silver ring. Technically, glamor rings were illegal, but Harry had never cared. They had saved his life on more than one occasion. They were harder to dispel, and unless one had an enchanted eye or incredible magical sensitivity, they would have no idea he was wearing a disguise.

He slipped the ring onto his finger, and his reflection rippled in the mirror before being replaced with a nondescript man, sporting brown hair and brown eyes, in a set of neat but unremarkable robes. Harry twisted the ring, and the cloths shifted into a muggle suit, utterly mundane.

Harry twisted his face into a bland smile. He'd modeled it on Vernon's expression when he was kissing up to someone.

"Tempus," Harry muttered, and the time floated before him. 8:23 am. Perfect. He could slip into the morning rush crowd in London.

Nodding to himself, Harry apparated away from his safehouse to London, appearing inside a filthy alleyway with a quiet 'pop'. It was empty, and the air was balmy. He straightened his tie, then made his way out onto the bustling sidewalk. He was aiming for a small convenience stand about a quarter mile away. In his world, it had been October 18th, 2007. The climate certainly didn't feel like October, it was closer to early summer heat. After a short walk through the bustling city streets, he arrived at the stand.

The papers were strewn about, filled with some celebrity gossip, but Harry zeroed in on the date.

June 5th, 1996. 11 years in the past.

He stood there, stunned for a moment. Perhaps this one newsstand was wrong. In a blur, he sped through the city to a convenience store.

The date on the papers there was the same.

Harry quickly ducked into a nearby alley after slipping out of the store. He leaned against the rough brickwork, heart pounding. He could barely hear the bustle of the crowd. It was one thing to ponder the possibilities, the logical conclusions, but to actually see it damn near knocked him over.

He was in the past.

But was it his past?

He had been 15 at this time, and he wasn't up to date on muggle news. He needed to get his hands on a copy of the Prophet. He dug into his bag for his wizard coin pouch, fumbling with it for a moment.

He fished out a single knut and without hesitation apparated to a small wizarding community 20 miles outside Essex. Diagon Alley was too busy, too central. He needed isolation just in case. It was a sleepy little town, mostly filled with poorer purebloods who couldn't afford their own estates. But it had a pub, the Dancing Dragon, that sold the Daily. He only just remembered to switch his clothing to robes before he walked in.

Harry forced himself not to sprint inside, instead maintaining a leisurely pace as he strolled into the pleasant little establishment. It was quiet inside, only a single young wizard manning the bar, and an elderly couple eating breakfast at one of the tables.

Harry strolled up to the bar, and managed to restrain himself from snatching one of the papers. He smiled blandly at the young man, who eyed him with slight suspicion.

"Good morning!" Harry greeted with false cheer, and a slight nod of the head. "Just popping in for a copy of the Prophet." he laid the knut down on the counter, and the barkeep seemed to relax. He handed him the paper with a small word that Harry didn't hear.

"Thank you my good man!" Harry yelled as he practically ran out of the pub, unable to wait any longer. He apparated on instinct, and landed at a isolated London park, near the river, sat down on a bench and yanked the paper open.

'World Quidditch Cup Location Finalized in Romania," was the top headline, but his eyes bounced to a smaller headline which read 'Blood Purists Run Rampant in Hogsmeade!' on page three.

He didn't remember any mention of Blood Purists in his time, so he flipped to the story and looked a picture of a burned out husk of a building. He didn't recognize the photo, which showed a smouldering building and a few men in scarlet Auror robes milling around.

'The night of June 4th was beautiful, stars glittering in the sky, a cool breeze. Until the peace was shattered when Orrios Panthicker, owner of the popular clothing location, "Orrios Finest Budget Robes", had his door blasted apart and was hauled out into the street by three figures clad in the Crimson Robes of the Blood Purists. Mr. Panthicker was restrained, beaten, and forced to watch as the robed assailants put his beloved shop to the flame. Then the innocent man was subjected to two Unforgivable curses in short order. His screams could be heard on the far side of town, but Ministry forces arrived too late to save Mr. Panthicker from a tragic death.

It's a story we've heard far too often these past two years. The Blood Purists, twice thought destroyed, return, and in this incarnation they save their most vicious methods for Purebloods who do not support them, slandering them as blood traitors. Orrios catered to many first-generation students at Hogwarts and would even sell copies of "Essential Guide to the Wizarding World," by Augustus Prewett, a book which the Blood Purists have tried to eliminate from circulation. They have not been as bold as to attempt a repeat of the Sunday Massacre of 1990, but experts claim it is only a matter of time before they return to mass murder.

When pressed for comment, the DMLE was as evasive as ever. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt stated at the scene, "The investigation is currently ongoing, and I cannot speak in detail at this time. Rest assured, Mr. Penthicker's murder will not go unpunished." When asked about the 53 other unsolved murders brazenly committed by Purists, Auror Shacklebolt refused to answer. That number is thought to be much higher, but the point stands that in the past two years only four Purists have been apprehended, with a slightly higher number killed in battle.

What is most concerning is that so far Hogsmeade has been free of attack, on the assumption that the Purists would not dare attack again following their defeat in 1981, and the proximity of Headmaster Dumbledore would dissuade any attacks. This belief was shattered last night. The Purists have grown bolder in the last few years, and several unnamed sources fear this attack was to test the Ministry response time for a full scale raid of the town, or worse Hogwarts itself. Concerns have been stoked by the absence of the new Dark Lord, who has yet to enter the field.

Today, in the eyes of this reporter, things are bleak. Fear reigns in the streets, the Ministry seems unable to stop the hit and run tactics, and no one else seems to have any reasonable plan of action. Once vocal supporters of muggleborns have fallen silent in the face of increasing violence, and bodies pile up in the streets. When asked about what regular citizens could do, Senior Auror James Potter advises…

Harry blinked stupidly at the collection of letters, trying to figure out how the collective came together to spell an impossible name. His father, James Potter, was alive. Not to mention, in his fifth year the Ministry would never have allowed such strong language to be printed in the paper, not when they had been denying the existence of the Death Eaters at all.

He was in an alternate reality. There was no other logical explanation. At least he wouldn't have to deal with time paradoxes, but still. All his knowledge of what was going to happen was worthless. There was no mention in the article of Voldemort, or any named Death Eaters. Blood Purists seems a little on the nose. Not to mention red robes? Just makes you a more visible corpse, and it makes you look the same as the Aurors.

It seemed there had been a recent revitalization in their activities, most likely the Dark Lord briefly mentioned. If he could figure out the overarching strategy, he might be able to cripple them or at least slow them down. Then he could move in for the kill.

Plans and tactics began swirling around his head before it all ground to a halt, and he stilled.

Why would I do anything? This isn't my War. Why shouldn't I just pull up stakes and leave this godforsaken island to its own fate?

I could be free. The thought echoed through his mind, and time seemed to slow down. Birds few in slow motion around the trees, and Harry wondered.

Ever since he had turned 11, he had felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. It had been on him to kill Voldemort, and even once he had the others looked to him for guidance and leadership.

"Such is the burden of power," Albus had told him once. Harry had wanted to have control over the war, and so had assumed a leading role in the Order by 17, and those of the DA who joined always saw him as their leader more than the others. By the time he was 20, he was the undisputed leader of the Light.

But when the war started slipping, Harry had been lost. He had no idea what to tell his troops as the Dark forces picked them off one by one. He had taken on the guilt of those failures, adding it to the burden that bowed his back.

He had never been able to walk away, even when the remains of the Order had entreated him to flee the country. They had been the closest things he had to family left, but still he couldn't turn his back and let the Death Eaters win.

He'd told himself that if he left it would be a betrayal all those who had fought and died, and those sacrifices had to mean something.

But here, in this new world, no one was counting on him to save them. These Blood Purists were not his problem, though they seemed to be in the same vein as the Death Eaters. The Ministry was as incompetent as ever, but that was almost comforting. But they were at least on the job, and it sounded like Albus was standing against them. They might be enough. Harry wasn't needed, and given his track record, he might make the situation worse.

He was powerful enough, and he knew enough to have a decent life in the muggle or magical world. The US was an option, as was France, though his French was rusty. Hell, he could even run to South America or Asia or Africa if he wanted. Nothing was holding him here.

And yet… he stayed on the bench. The memory of his last conversation with Cho Chang came unbidden to his mind.

The two had been lovers in the last days of the war, mostly out of mutual grief over those they had lost rather than any real feeling.

The image of her once beautiful face, marred with a long, ropey scar stretching from chin to forehead, was seared into his mind. She'd suffered the wound years earlier, on one of the many missions gone wrong under Harry's leadership. She looked defeated, broken, and was fleeing the country following Draco's ascension.

Harry leaned against the door frame, watching as she packed her bag. "You're not to going to try and convince me to come with you?" he'd asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from seeping out of his otherwise neutral tone. Like they were discussing the weather.

Cho looked up at him, a deep sorrow in her eyes. "No. I thought about it, could maybe even talk you into it."

She sighed, and looked away from him "But I can't do it. If you left, you'd spend the rest of life regretting it. Without this war, you'll be a husk of yourself, filled with regret. And I can't do that to you."

Grabbing her bag, she closed the distance between them, and laid her soft hand on his face.

He stared into her eyes, once filled with life and joy that had drawn him to her when he was still a schoolboy, and saw nothing. All her tears had dried, and all the hopes of youth dashed by uncaring reality.

He wondered what she saw in his eyes.

"As long as I've known you, you've never been able to quit, or turn away from a fight. It's cruel that fate decided to put you in a war you can't win. That's your tragedy," she said softly, but not kindly. Harry didn't know how to respond to that. He couldn't deny anything she'd said.

Cho leaned in and laid a chaste kiss on his closed lips. "Goodbye Harry," she whispered, before vanishing out the door.

Harry supposed he should feel crushed. He should fall to the ground and weep bitter tears. He knew he should feel something, anything.

But he's just tired, and vaguely annoyed. Plans swirled around his mind, about supplying his army and securing another base now that they had lost Hogwarts. This hotel wouldn't last.

He left the room and left all thoughts of Cho there with it.

Harry blinked, bringing himself back to the present. Sometimes it was hard not to get lost in his thoughts, not to relive moments and wonder if he could have done anything different. But at the same time, he understood why he'd remembered this.

Even though these burdens had been forced upon him, he had accepted them readily. He could have run, or he could have given into his darkness and taken over the Death Eaters at numerous turning points.

But despite his dream, he wasn't like the Dark Lords he had slain. They fought only for themselves, letting their followers take the brunt of the bloodshed. Harry was always the first line of defense, and the last to withdraw. He fought for his family, for those who had fallen.

He had stayed in a hopeless situation, but it seemed Fate was giving him a second chance to start over fresh and right the wrongs of his past. If he ran away from this, he'd never forgive himself. Better to try and fail than to run.

This is not my world, but I'll fight for it anyway.

Harry smiled, a real smile not tainted by sorrow or regret, as his resolve banished any doubts. Time to do what he did best: the wrong thing for the right reason.

Authors Notes

Thanks for reading all this way! Review if you feel like it, this is going to be a long fic, so feedback now would be appreciated. If anyone has some good combat spell names, ones you made up yourself or saw in a another fic, send them my way with a brief description. I've been absorbing concepts and ideas from other Fanfictions for years, for this piece major inspiration came from Circular Reasoning by Swimdraconian, Delenda Est by Lord Silvere, and The Weapon Revised! By GwendolynnFiction

There are others I'm forgetting, I'm sure.