Written For: Round 5: Fix it, Harry!

Captains Round Prompt: Like every good leader your fans are cheering for you: you have to use at least one song in your three to ten prompts; you also have to use the second of the FACTS as your basis for a fixed future.

Chosen Fact: Harry isn't physically present (for example: he can be a voice in another persons head; he can be a ghost only one person can see, etc.)

Prompts: (word) time turner, (object) broken mirror, (song) Carolus Rex - Sabaton (English Version)

Rex Resurgent

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Harry looked down at his hands and shook them violently, but they remained translucent. He floated despondently through the house at Godric's Hollow, powerless to interact with his environment or its inhabitants.

"Come on, Lily! It was just a laugh!" James was saying as he nursed a hangover from one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace.

"It was nothing of the sort!" Lily's nostrils flared as she paced back and forth in front of the mantle with the baby in her arms. Harry could see that he had been a fussy infant. Every time she tried to sit down, he'd fidget and fuss again, and she'd reluctantly get back to her feet and begin her eternal pacing anew. "You and Sirius knew that they were muggles! They were probably scared out of their minds!"

"Lily, it's not like that," James replied, looking hurt. "They deserved it, anyway."

"Well, you won't be going out any longer, not while Dumbledore has your cloak," Lily said icily. "Which means you can finally help out more with Harry."

"Ugh, Lily, come on. My head is pounding," James groaned.

"Your head is pounding? I haven't slept a full eight hours for two weeks," Lily replied, her voice cracking a bit. "Not that you would know anything about that since you have been galavanting around with your mates having fun while I waste away in here without anyone to talk to. Out of the lot of you, only Peter's stopped by to watch Harry while I take a nap and it's thanks to him that I have not yet hexed your bollocks off for being such an utter knob of a husband!"

Harry winced as he floated above them. The domestic bliss he'd seen in the photo album Hagrid had given him had not prepared him for this. The worst of it was that he could see how young both of them were, and just how unprepared they were for a war...or parenthood.

It had taken Harry several years to figure out how to throw himself back in time. It had started when he'd found a cracked time-turner in an old evidence locker deep within the bowels of the Auror's division. Harry had begun hiding out in there in order to avoid having to go out into the field. He found that his nerves were not suited for dealing with Dark wizards and witches up to no good, but he was far too afraid to tell Kingsley that he'd made a mistake in hiring him.

It was the time-turner that had convinced Harry to travel back in time. He quickly learned that the time-turner didn't work quite right, which led him to do something he hated.

Research.

Though Harry would never admit it, hiding in the back of the evidence warehouse gave him something to do instead of simply napping on top of a pile of black market flying carpets that had lost nearly all their magic due to shoddy charmwork.

And so he read about time sand, and the properties thereof. It turned out that there was a ritual that was known to use time-sand in its purest form to rip open places where great magic and things of historical importance had happened. The ritual specified an object of particular emotional resonance to serve as a "tuning fork" for the spellcaster.

Harry knew exactly what he would use.

The broken mirror was still sitting at the bottom of his old trunk where he'd left it. Sirius had died because of Harry's negligence. He only needed one more thing.

A place where he could rip through time.

Harry watched his parents argue with increased irritation. There was no way he was going to be able to make any headway here. He floated up through the floors until he was sitting on the roof of the house and he stared up at the cloudy night sky. Oddly enough, he could still smell the wet grass scent in the air and knew it was cold, but he experienced it in a vague sort of way, as though he were wearing a large coat around his entire body. As far as he could tell, he wasn't a ghost, because even they could interact with physical objects when they wanted to. And he wasn't dead, either. Somehow, even though he had no evidence to suggest this was true, he was certain of it.

Maybe I just need to find someone who can see me, he thought.

First he tried with Remus. Surely, Harry thought, with Remus' werewolf instincts, he would see or sense the floating young man who was yelling and trying in vain to pull on his ears.

Remus, however, remained oblivious.

Next, he tried Sirius. Perhaps the fact that the mirror had been Sirius would tie them together. Still, no matter how much Harry tried, it was as futile as before.

Finally, out of desperation and fury at the rat-like face of Peter, who had scurried in with a gift basket of food from Dumbledore and a wormy, guilty look in his eyes, Harry punched the rotund man right in the gut. "You fucking traitor!" he shouted

"OOF," Peter grunted, flying backwards. Lily used her wand to levitate the basket and its contents before they fell to the floor and James helped Peter back to his feet.

"Oi, you ok, Pete?" James said, patting him on the back.

Peter's eyes were wild as he looked around the room. Harry saw the moment when they momentarily stopped and focused on his floating form. "U-um, yeah, musta tripped or somethin' like that," he shuddered, as though he'd seen a ghost. "Well, best be on my way, then."

"Oh no you don't, you rat," Harry snarled, grabbing Peter by his coattails.

The short, rounded man yelped, and shot out of the front door, immediately Apparating away on the front step of the house.

He did not seem to realize that Harry was still inexplicably holding on.

The bachelor pad that Peter returned to was only a few steps above a hole in the wall. Harry supposed that it was appropriate. It was hilarious to watch Peter turn, blanche, and shift into his rat form, then scurry under the bed. Harry floated underneath until Peter turned back into a quivering man.

"W-what do you want?" he asked.

"You're the reason they're going to die, Death Eater scum," Harry replied, and Peter did something utterly unexpected— he burst into tears.

"I-it's not l-like I wanna," Peter blubbered loudly. "The Dark Lord is g-gonna k-kill m-my d-daughter if I don't."

Harry reeled back in shock. He had no idea that Peter had a child as well. At once, he hated Voldemort even more than before.

"What's her name?" Harry asked, as Peter summoned a box of tissues to wipe his nose.

And so, Harry learned about Hannah, who had wide, rosy cheeks and eyes that sparkled like they held a universe within, and Harry realized that just as his own parents would do anything to protect him, they weren't the only ones driven to desperation in the name of their child.

"It's not fair," Peter said, finally, "but what else can I do?"

Harry thought for awhile as he floated aimlessly through the air. Suddenly, his eyes lit up as he realized something very important.

"I can touch you!" he exclaimed.

"I'd rather you didn't," Peter replied uncomfortably. "It's like an electric shock."

"Oh, really?" Harry said, and swooped down, grasping Peter's wrist with one hand.

"Ow!" Peter yelped, his body convulsing as though touching a live wire.

Harry let go. Peter rubbed his wrist. "That was the worst yet."

"Interesting," Harry said. Despite learning about Peter's motivation for his deeds, he still had a lot of unchecked rage towards the man who had led all of his friends to death or suffering at one point or another.

"Could you please stop that?" Peter's chin wobbled.

"Only if you help me stop him," Harry said.

"But how?" Peter whined. "Dumbledore himself told me he could not guarantee my daughter's safe return from where that monster is hiding her! There's a prophecy, you see...only the Dark Lord knows what it says, and even I can tell it has something to do with James and Lily…"

"Or their son," Harry said darkly, his thoughts going to that damned prophecy. The "power the Dark Lord knew not." He made a strangled sound as his mind snapped the pieces together. Of course! How could he have been so clueless? He didn't say anything aloud. There was no real telling how trustworthy Peter would be, even if it seemed to benefit him to do so.

"What would the Dark Lord want with Harry?" Peter asked.

"What did the Dark Lord want with your child?" Harry retorted, and Peter looked ill. "For all you know, that's his plan: steal all the children from Order members and then force them to turn against Dumbledore."

Peter's face had gone a queer shade of green, and he said nothing.

"Dumbledore can't help you," Harry said. "But maybe I can."

Harry experimented with his temporary corporeality for much of the evening, much to Peter's suffering.

"You were all too happy to sacrifice the Potters," Harry snarled as he pressed his fingers against the Dark Mark.

Hm, it seemed that the closer his ghostly form was to Peter's Mark, the more control Harry had. And, what's more, it was literally enough to make Peter pass out in pain.

"P-please! No more!" Peter's voice was a terrible rasp.

"Think of Hannah," Harry said, his voice gentler than he'd expected. He was still angry at the man for what he had done or, rather, was potentially yet to do, but as usual, his sentimental foolish heart could only think of Peter's story.

Peter bit down on his lip until blood dripped down his chin, and held still.

Harry pushed and pushed against the Mark, and then, almost as though he had stepped into a Ministry toilet, he found himself being drawn in and down, down, into the darkness.

Harry floated in the shadowy murk, his eyes long having adjusted to its dark expanse. Here and there, there were gashes of light showing various scenery and movement. Harry supposed that he was actually looking out through the Marks of the various Death Eaters. Oddly, there were fewer of them than he'd thought. Well, he supposed, Hagrid had told him that a lot of the Dark Lord's followers hadn't formally been Marked.

He saw a flash of light and a purple plume and moved closer to see a pale hand stirring a mystery liquid over a roaring fire. Hah, that's probably Snape, Harry thought, with something almost like fondness. Even though he would never honestly be able to say that he liked the dour Potions master, the man had done what he could to defeat Voldemort. Perhaps, though, if Harry's suspicions were confirmed, there may be no reason for anyone to meet their end.

"Who knows? Perhaps ol' Snape will decide to stop haunting the halls of Hogwarts and get into some potions by mail business so no one has to see his grumpy face," Harry mused, darting away from the gash when the arm abruptly spun in space and a wide, black eye stared into it for a long moment before it spun back to what it was doing again.

Harry swallowed the scream that had almost erupted from his lips and moved further from any of the gashes of light.

Eventually as he floated onward, he found something odd. In the darkness, there was an even darker stripe of substance that branched out in a few directions towards distant gashes. On a whim, Harry followed the first one to its tip only to find a very iconic cup sitting in a familiar vault.

Hufflepuff's cup? Could it be?

Harry moved closer and found that his foot had accidentally pushed against the dark ribbon on the floor. It had an odd texture, which was surprising, as he'd been nearly as incorporeal here as everywhere else. The sensation was like rope, but...more rubbery and yielding. Harry shuddered involuntarily, but he still knelt down to prod it with his finger. It was warm and pulsing, like some sort of oily fleshy root, and Harry bit back an exclamation of disgust.

Still, the thought of roots made him think of what they were connected to, and he retraced his steps down to the main "road" and followed the next "root" to its end.

His suspicions were confirmed. There was Ravenclaw's diadem!

Harry thought fast. He didn't have any weapons, and his wand was presumably back with his corporeal body, but he could still grab the root-like substance with his fingers. Harry tried pulling it, but it merely pulled back and he made no progress. He stomped it, but the material was supple and nothing happened. He attempted clawing at it, but it only opened up some small pinpricks, which oozed a strong-smelling liquid that made Harry gag.

Eventually, Harry realized that there was only one other option, and it was not going to be pretty.

"This is for everyone who I lost…" Harry's voice wavered, and he forced himself to envision in his mind's eye all of the people who had died because of Voldemort's evil. Then, without allowing himself a moment more to think about what he was about to do, he pulled the root into his mouth and began to chew through it as fast as he could.

Great gouts of dark slime poured into his mouth, but Harry didn't yield. He grimly hacked through it using his teeth until the connection lay severed as he heaved and vomited everything he could. Harry scraped his tongue and it still tasted like what he imagined a burned skunk covered in stinksap might taste.

He allowed himself a long, deep breath, and then moved towards the next connection, his face set in an expression of grim determination.

Harry wasn't sure how many hours it had been. His transparent body was nearly covered with the tar-like substance, but there was still one more left. It was thicker than the rest, and pulsed with green light.

Voldemort's original soul fragment. Harry couldn't speak, but his thoughts were still clear. This, then, was Voldemort's original body— the man himself. Harry noticed that the pulsing was frantic, like a fearfully beating heart, and he supposed that perhaps the bile that he'd tasted each time was a kind of blood pumping out from the source both ways. The man was weak now. Harry felt a sense of supreme exhaustion— what one might call "soul weariness," and yet still he pressed on. He could not give the evil man a moment more to harm the people he loved.

Harry snarled and threw himself onto the pulsing darkness like a wild creature, and sank his teeth into it.

An unearthly scream echoed through the darkness, and the thing struggled under him. When Harry looked up, he saw two glowing eye-like slits opening in the substance, a gash of a mouth following.

"How dare you!" it screamed.

Harry said nothing, and lunged for the eye, tearing away at the darkness until all that was left was a large open gash. Bile and light poured from it and the mouth howled in agony.

Something wrapped around his body, trying to pull him away, but Harry held on tighter, his hands becoming claw-like and sinking deeper into the dark flesh of the remaining soul connection. The thing struggled and Harry could feel it pouring power into its manifestation. He even felt a horrible pain in his incorporeal leg, as though it had been snapped in two, which should have been impossible.

But then, suddenly, there was a gush of bile and then there was only darkness and silence.

Harry floated in the void, breathing in shallow gasps. He couldn't feel his leg anymore, and one of his eyes was blackened with bile. He didn't even have the energy to wipe it away. His consciousness flickered in and out, with each breath, and above him, he watched the darkness fall away to reveal images moving around him.

There was Peter, pushing his daughter on a swing. There, was Lucius Malfoy feeding baby Draco some pudding. There, even, was Snape with a signed parchment declaring him the owner of a new apothecary, trying very hard not to look excited as Dumbledore wished him a merry Christmas.

It wasn't just the Death Eaters (or, Harry, thought idly, former Death Eaters, for what they'd been was now cut away from the source). He saw his parents hiking with him in a carrier on his dad's back. He saw Hagrid smiling and finishing up the final touches on the enclosure for his new hippogriff friend. He saw faces that he'd only ever seen in a stained photo- members of the Order living their lives; smiling, struggling, persevering.

"I had it all wrong. I was never the Chosen One," Harry said, the barest hint of a smile twisting his lips as he felt his consciousness slip away. "I was merely the one who got to choose."