Chapter Text
Metanoia
Chapter One
The Journey To Change
Metanoia
met·a·noi·a /ˌmedəˈnoiə/
(n.) The journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life.
It was dark.
Harry couldn't see where he was, didn't really know where he was. It was just dark, black beyond anything he could ever see.
So he walked.
Miles and miles stretched on, seconds to minutes to hours, time seemingly not working at all in this dark, dark space. Still, he walked.
What seemed like days, which could have very well been minutes or years—there was no knowing—Harry found what he was looking for.
A small hunched figure, somewhere in the distance, head laying down on his arms, arms that were hugging knees to his chest, a figure in too-big castoffs that hid a skinny frame and knobby knees. Harry made his way over.
Harry stared at the boy, too small you wouldn't be able to tell he was 10, and thought of what he was to say. This was it, he thought. The moment that would change history or not at all.
"I wouldn't really be sending you back," Hermione explained her plan. They were in her room, a room she stayed locked away in for hours on end when they weren't fighting in the battlefield. It used to be Hermione and Ron's but... it's been Hermione's room for so long since—
"There is no known spell or time-turner that can go beyond a few minutes, or hours at most, nothing that could send you back to even just a day," she explained, her tone exactly the way it's always been when he explained things to Harry, "but there is a way to send a message back in time."
"A message?" Harry asked. Hermione nodded and leaned forward, showing her brother in all but blood the book that gave her the idea in the first place. Harry leaned closer to look and—
Harry blinked. Once. Twice. Harry raised a brow, eyes moving to stare at his best friend. She blushed but kept her expression stern and serious.
"Divination?" Nothing else was said; Harry's tone said it all. Hermione 'Divination is not a real subject and is nothing but a hoax' Granger. The world must truly be desperate.
It was, so Harry didn't joke about it.
Hermione huffs. "I know. But it said something about 'reaching beyond to people unseen' and something called scrying. And at first I scoffed at the notion, yes, but somehow, it wouldn't escape my mind so I researched more about the subject, see if there was something similar, if not that it was legible, which would have been something," Hermione grumbles under her breath, making Harry snort.
She rolls her eyes but says nothing, instead choosing to continue explaining. "And then I found something, not the same but applying the same theory into practice. It wasn't a complete thought yet, though, nothing but a theory. So I researched a bit, used a bit of arithmetic, a little bit of astronomy and a little bit of runes and, well," Hermione trails off, grabbing a piece of parchment and showing the graph to Harry.
"I think we can do," she says, "And tonight might be our only chance."
Harry, a young man of 23, crouches and sits crisscrossed, the boy, 10 turning 11, right in front of him. Harry looks around and he can see a little dingy cot under the boy, with a ratty old blanket and not even a pillow. Harry's heart aches with conflicting emotions. He hates—hated—this dusty, cramped space, a place no child should ever be in for an extended period of time, and yet... Harry aches with want. The cupboard under the stairs might have been a horrid place for a child to sleep in, but it was safe. Vernon was too big to be able to reach him there.
"Hey there, little man." Not boy, never boy. Harry Potter never had a chance to be a boy, not since that night in Godric's Hallow.
A head with a nest of unkempt raven locks rises, revealing wide and bright green eyes, innocent eyes. Harry Potter, ten turning eleven, stares back at a man with the same shade of green eyes and the same mess of raven black hair. His head cocks to the side and Harry, 20, does the same, unconsciously.
He smiles, small but sad but real. "Hey there, Harry."
And blimey if that doesn't feel weird.
"Are you...?" Little Harry asks but the older shakes his head.
"Nah—I'm you," he shrugs unceremoniously. Little Harry's eyes widens.
"A dream," he mumbles, staring at the ground, "It must be..." At this, the older Harry nods.
"It is," he agrees. Little Harry's head snaps up, confused. He smiles ruefully, a bit apologetic. He knows it's confusing, as is always with magic this complex.
Hermione had explained this to him. How she would send her consciousness through time, when he would be able to warn himself, to change time, history, stop the war before it even begun. He would be tethered to a time, any time, where his younger self would be. Harry chose to find the him before it all started.
"You're asleep, Harry, but so am I," older Harry explained, "I came to visit you, you see, talk to you a bit—warn you."
Little Harry's eyes widen even more. "Warn me?" He whispers fearfully.
Older Harry nods; no way to sugarcoat it. Harry never received a straight answer for his life, always having to find and solve mysteries and riddles and receiving half-answers from twinkly eyed, old men. Maybe things wouldn't have reached this point had someone just told it to him straight.
Harry would not do the same to himself, young as he may be.
"Something bad is going to happen, Harry, in the future. A war; a horrible, horrible war," little Harry's eyes couldn't be any wider, "But you can stop that, Harry, if you listen to what I say."
Older Harry was wrong—little Harry's eyes could grow wider.
"Me?" He all but squeaks, "But I'm just—"
"'Just Harry'," Older him cuts him off. "I know," he smiles sad and knowingly. Little Harry is reminded then, that this man, taller than him, older than him, strong yet still so skinny, is still him. No one in this time, this moment, knows him more than this man does, because they are the same, one person, in different times, but still one, whole person.
"But it doesn't matter," older him says then. He gazes at little Harry with sad, tired eyes.
"Your choices can change everything, whether you ever realize it or not—I sure as bloody hell didn't," he shakes his head ruefully.
"But what can I do?" Little Harry whispers, always so quiet, never one to be loud even in the comfort of his own mind, as if someone (Vernon, Harry's mind supplies) would hear. Harry's hand rises to touch little Harry's hair, right where it hides his scar. The younger winces in recognition but says nothing, does nothing, because young Harry can see the same scar reflected in front of him.
Young him would have flinched back then, a stranger trying to touch him... but he wasn't a stranger, was he? They were the same and one person. If there would be anyone who wouldn't hurt Harry, it would be himself.
Such a sad thought for a ten-year old but so very true.
"Be you."
The older him doesn't need to see his younger face to see the shock in his eyes—lots of surprises, it was to be expected. He sighs and begins to explain his story. He has until morning, when Aunt Petunia wakes and opens the cupboard door, when little Harry would start the day with his list of chores.
"There aren't really many things you should or shouldn't do, Harry. Some things are out of our control—but us? That has always been ours to control," Harry explains, eyes hard and expression serious. Little him could only nod numbly.
Older Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "I won't lie to you, Harry. Some will try to control you, and they will try, very hard, but if you stay true to yourself and remember my words, you'll be alright, everything will be alright."
Harry rakes his eyes over himself, young, small and so innocent, trusting the him that was older but still the same person as himself, and Harry decides he should explain some things first.
He tells younger him of magic, and of wizards and witches, and of half-giants and yer a wizard, Harry, of hearty and bookish best friends and red-haired families, and of men turning into dogs and rats and werewolves, and little him eats it all up with awe and wonder and hope because Harry isn't a freak, he's a wizard and no one can tell him otherwise who and what he is—
Little Harry tears at that, he cries when he is told of his parents, he sobs when he is told that the Dursleys had lied and his parents loved him and they died for him because they loved him.
Older Harry feels a shift then, like a subtle and gentle wind, and he knows he has to hurry.
"Harry," he calls to the still crying boy, "Harry, I don't have much more, you must remember my words, Harry. You heed them, alright? You can't let anyone else's words influence you, control you, do you understand? I have to tell you what you have to do, okay, do you understand?"
Still teary eyed, younger him nods and stares at him, attention undivided. Harry nods, satisfied.
"Harry, you're going to receive a letter today, a very special letter," Harry states, a small smile pulling at his lips despite the chill of the growing stronger winds. "You are about to get your acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Little Harry's breath leaves him in a whoosh. Older him grins despite himself. He remembers the elation of having a letter addressed to him for the very first time, even after all this time.
"You're going to have to reply, Harry, send it with an owl," Harry sees the question on his face so he explains, "There'll be an owl waiting, I'm sure. Go to the backyard and look for it. Raise your hand with the letter and it'll take it to Hogwarts for you."
"W-what do I..." little Harry hesitates, uncertain. His older self nods, understanding.
"'Dear deputy headmistress, I, Harry James Potter, accept a place at your school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' Next paragraph, 'My aunt has explained to me and shall take me to Diagon Alley to buy my school requirements.' Another paragraph is 'Thank you.' And sign, 'Harry James Potter' at the end." Little Harry nods; his eyes on the ground as he runs and memorizes the sentence in his head. With a final nod, little him gazes back at his older counterpart.
Harry continues.
"You go to London, to a pub named Leaky Cauldron in Charing Cross Road. When you arrive at Diagon, go to Gringotts, the bank. It’s white and huge, hard to miss. Aunt Petunia knows the way. I know you're afraid but you have to get her to take you. If she won't, and you think you can go on your own, then go. Be smart, Harry. We have always been smart; don't let anyone stop you from showing it, not anymore."
Harry takes his younger self's hands and it is accepted without a flinch.
Harry sighs. This would have been harder to say, a decade ago, before the war started, but he could easily say it now, after everything. There is a world outside of petty house rivalries and each characteristic that the houses favored are all good qualities. If the world would be safer if the Boy Who Lived wore silver and green, then let it protest and shout. There are worse things than words, like guns and bombs, war and death, and life, goddamnit.
"We're pretty smart, aren't we?" He asks and little Harry nods uncertainly. "I mean, we have to be, living with people like the Dursleys. At the very least," Harry smirks at him then, "We're the smartest in the house."
Little Harry snorts; quiet, shocked laughter escaping his throat. Older him chuckles with him, feeling something deep within him soothed by childish and innocent laughter. Gods, when was the last time he saw pure joy like this? The elderly and the young were of the highest death rates when the war reached its peak. It still was, even after years of war. But that would change now; Harry could feel it in his bones, in his magic and in his soul. Little Harry would change it all, save them all, and no one would know but him and the forces that be.
Harry inhales sharply, expression serious, "We're cunning, Harry, we have to be to survive in a place where we're unwanted, I had to be, to survive in a dangerous time. And now, now you're going to have to be cunning again, so that you don't come to that. Do you want to come to that? Do you want to become me?"
And little Harry looks at him then, pale and gaunt, skinny as he's always been but with a strength he's never had, Harry is sure underneath dirty, worn jeans is the same knobby knees as his. He wears dirty clothing, dirtier than he's ever been; clothes that still don't fit him but at least doesn't drown him like his. Messy hair, always messy hair, that looks like it hasn't seen the end of a showerhead in weeks and eerie green eyes, grim and dark and cold and tired, so, so tired. Harry can see scars, tiny and long tendrils that poke out of his clothes and Harry sees pain, so much pain that he's never seen before and his heart breaks a little because this man, a man he could become, has his already broken and shattered.
"No," Harry whispers and he is small and young but still so very alive, with hope and fire and a stubbornness that hasn't been defeated yet, and his older counterpart nods, satisfied, a little bit of light entering his eyes.
Little Harry feels it then, the wind that's been building and building since they began talking. Change. History was changing—or, in this case, erased.
He realizes this and he grabs on to the lapels of his older counterpart, frantic, panicked. Not yet, not yet, he doesn't know what to do just quite yet!
Harry holds his younger self, equally panicked but sure, ever so sure, that it'll be okay.
"Harry," he rushes, "Harry, I have no more time left. Remember this, if there is anything my life has taught me, my friends and family, this war, is that things aren't always at it seems. Dark doesn't mean evil and we shouldn't jump into things we don't understand."
"I don- I don't get it!" His younger self yells, frustrated. Harry shakes his head.
"Snape. Trust Snape. He's a right old dour git, and he can be mean, but he's on your side, Harry. Even if it doesn't seem like it at times, he's on your side, if only because he was friends with our mother."
Harry's eyes widen, "He was?"
He nods, "Yes. And Sirius and Remus are friends of our fathers. They will stand by you, will always stand by you. The goblins, they're a neutral party, they won't lie to you. Trust in them, even when it's hard, but whatever you do, and I mean this, Harry," he grabs his younger counterpart's shoulders and stares at him gravely.
"Do not trust Albus Dumbledore."
And then Older Harry was gone.