“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”

“That is us to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “We are in King’s Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let’s say… board a train.”

“And where would it take me?”

“On,” said Dumbledore simply.

As the bright mist descended, obscuring Dumbledore, Harry ached to ask him more questions, demand more answers, seek his advice. Yet the silver hair and midnight blue robes were melting away and Harry knew that the choice that needed making was his and his alone.

Harry sat back down on the bench and dropped his head into his hands. As much as he’d love to go on as Dumbledore had said, to be with his mother and father and Sirius—and now Lupin and Tonks and Fred as well—he knew he couldn’t abandon the rest of the people he cared so deeply about. They remained bound to the earth, fighting for a cause they believed in. And if they lost, Harry would have failed them all. The battle for the Horcruxes would have been meaningless, and his friends would be worse than dead under Voldemort’s regime. No, going on was not an option. Going back seemed the only choice, but so many had died already, too many. There had been too many senseless deaths, lives lost for no reason, families torn apart…

Harry lifted his head, a thought forming in his mind. He had to go back, yes, but did that mean he had to go back to the battle persay? What if he went back further? What if he could save not only Lupin and Tonks and Fred, but also Dumbledore and Sirius. Maybe even Cedric. If there was a train that would take him forward, wouldn’t there also be one that could take him back? And if so, how far back could he go?

Jumping to his feet, he walked to the edge of the platform, eagerly surveying the tracks. This was his party, as Dumbledore had said, so it reasoned that all he’d need to do was ask for a train and one should appear.  Closing his eyes, Harry concentrated hard. When he opened them, a bright red steam engine had materialized, steam billowing merrily from it. Harry hesitated only a moment before stepping into the open compartment. Throwing caution to the wind, he named the time and place he wanted to return to.

“Please let me have made the right choice,” he murmured, grabbing on to a support rail as the train left the station, picking up speed as it went.

Harry found himself walking down the stairs to the dungeons with Ron and Hermione. He had his schoolbag slung over one shoulder, and a letter in his hand.

“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” Ron said incredulously.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it,” said Hermione.

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and back again. They both looked so young. Ron’s face still had that babyish look to it. The Ron he remembered had a longer, thinner face sprinkled with stubble. And Hermione. Gone were the constant worry lines and her haunted expression. She looked so innocent and carefree. They both did. Harry looked down at himself for a moment. The back of his hands were unmarked, the faint scars that read “I must not tell lies” had not yet been engraved into his skin. So intent in his observations was he that he missed the next step, causing all three of them to stumble. Hermione managed to catch herself on the handrail, while Ron grabbed Harry and set him back on his feet.

“All right there, mate?” Ron asked.

“You look a little pale, Harry. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Harry lied. The high pitched sound of his voice caught him off guard. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “I’m fine.” His voice broke leaving him to marvel at the fact that he was, once again, going through puberty. Suppressing a smile, he said, “Just worried,” and waved the letter in his hand to indicate Sirius’s pronouncement that he wanted to meet the trio in Hogsmeade.

“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” said Ron. “And it’s not like the place is swarming with Dementors anymore.”

Harry said nothing. He folded up the letter and tucked it into his robes, still lost in thought. He wanted to ask what day it was, what month it was, but knew he couldn’t do so without raising their suspicions.

As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Grabbe, Goyle, and a knot of Slytherin girls. Harry hadn’t considered how he was going to handle Malfoy this time around. Just then, Pansy Parkinson noticed them.

“There they are,” Pansy said, laughing derisively. “You might find something to interest you in there, Granger,” she said, throwing a copy of Witch Weekly at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled. Just then, the dungeon door opened and Snape beckoned them all inside.

Snape. Harry froze. He hadn’t been prepared for the sight of him. Snape looked years younger than when Harry had last seen him. Harry hadn’t realized how much Voldemort’s return had aged the man. Snape’s hair was still a shiny, greasy black, not limp and streaked with grey as Harry had remembered it. And the man held himself upright, exuding confidence and superiority, not yet beaten down by the demands of a sadistic master, not to mention a friend and mentor whom he had trusted, yet would later—at least in Snape’s mind—betray him.

“Are you coming?” Ron asked, looking back at Harry from the door.

Harry shook himself. “Yeah, sorry.”

Harry sat down next to Ron and Hermione at a table in the back of the classroom.

“Today we’ll be brewing the wit-sharpening potion.”

As Snape’s voice droned on, Harry watched, riveted. He couldn’t help but stare at the wizard who had sacrificed so much, yet neither received nor accepted any credit. He knew Snape’s reasons, but they did little to banish the intense fascination Harry now felt for the man. After all, the last time he’d seen Snape, aside from the wizard’s penseived memories, was as he lay dying in the shrieking shack. It hadn’t been Harry’s eyes that Snape had wanted to see as Snape died, it had been his mother Lily’s.

“Potter, are you paying attention? Or are you daydreaming about your fame and fortune?”

“Sir?” Harry said, startled out his reverie. He’d forgotten just how biting and vindictive Snape could be.

“Tell me, Potter, what color should the wit-sharpening potion be when it is finished if it is brewed correctly?”

“Dark orange, sir,” Harry said instantly. The wit-sharpening potion had become one he’d relied upon, not only to help in the final task of the Triwizard tournament, but also during the Horcrux hunt. 

“And what does it mean, Potter, if the potion is deep violet instead?”

“It means that you added the ginger roots and armadillo bile in reverse order.”

Snape looked momentarily surprised and then suspicious. Harry glanced at Hermione and realized his mistake; although he was right, Snape had not actually told the class this.

“I mean, sir,” Harry said quickly, “that we obviously didn’t follow your instructions closely enough if the potion ends up being purple instead of orange.”

Snape did not look the least bit mollified. Harry cursed himself for his stupidity. He had returned as a fourth year, not a seventh year, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d blow his cover entirely. Harry put his head down and tried to make it look like he was taking notes.

The class held its collective breath as Snape approached their lab bench. Harry had a fleeting hope that Snape might give him detention. That would be one way to solve his dilemma of how to arrange a private meeting with the man. He looked up to see Snape’s eyes not trained on him, but on something near his right knee.

“Reading magazines under the table, Potter?” Snape said, reaching out and snatching the magazine that Pansy Parkinson had thrown at Hermione.

Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of the title that spilled in large black ink across the top of the page: Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache. Harry racked his brain, trying to remember what that article had been about. It seemed so long ago.

“Ten points from Gryffindor… oh but of course…” Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on the article. “Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings…”

Harry felt momentarily confused. He had forgotten how much venom Snape had for his childhood self. Just then, Snape’s baritone voice boomed out, reading the ludicrous article to the class. Ah yes, Rita Skeeter’s article. Harry remembered suddenly that this was the article that had driven Hermione to uncover Skeeter’s illegal animagous form. He wondered if he should tell her straight away, but then decided against it. It would be good for Hermione to figure it out on her own.

The sound of the Slytherin’s laughter caught Harry’s attention. He listened more closely as Snape paused at the end of each sentence, giving the Slytherin’s time to laugh at his expense. Harry wanted to laugh too at the ridiculousness of it all. Instead he rolled his eyes and looked at Hermione in commiseration. A blush of deep pink had crept up her cheeks and she looked close to tears. Frowning, Harry looked away, unsure of how to react. Being in a fourteen year old body, with the memories and experiences of a seventeen year old, was proving more difficult than he could have imagined.

“Well, I think I had better separate the three of you so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter—that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.”

Harry gathered his things and moved to the front bench. This was actually good. Perhaps he could have a word with Snape without anyone overhearing. Or perhaps he could find a way to earn himself a detention. With as much as Snape loathed him during this time, that shouldn’t be too hard. On the other hand, Harry knew he must be acting a bit out of character by the way Snape kept looking at him.

“All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head, Potter,” said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again.

Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him, trying to get Harry to react as Snape expected him to. People, Harry noticed, generally did not like when you changed the rules of engagement. As such, they often pushed even harder, trying to make the person act in a familiar way.

“You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him, “but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.”

As Harry tipped the ground scarab beetles into the cauldron and began chopping up his ginger root, he considered Snape’s words. Insults aside, Harry knew that he had broken a lot of rules while he was at Hogwarts. And considering what Harry knew now—that Snape had been charged with protecting him and keeping him alive—no doubt this lack of respect for rules was beyond infuriating for Snape. Harry had the sudden urge to laugh at how much harder he’d inadvertently made the man’s life. No wonder Snape was always so annoyed with him.

“So I give you fair warning, Potter,” Snape continued in a softer and more dangerous voice, “pint-sized celebrity or not—if I catch you breaking into my office one more time—“

“I haven’t been anywhere near your office,” Harry responded. He knew that he’d never broken into Snape’s office; he might have done some irresponsible things in his time, but he wasn’t that stupid. Surely Snape of all people had elaborate wards and tracking spells on his office.

“Don’t lie to me,” Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harry’s. “Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both came from my private stores and I know who stole them.”

Harry looked down at his potion to cover his confusion. The gillyweed was obvious; Dobby had taken that to give to Harry for the second task. But boomslang skin? Hermione had taken it in their second year, but Snape was more than likely referring to Barty Crouch Jr. masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody. Harry chanced a glance at Snape.

Snape was standing over him, holding a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. “Do you know what this is, Potter?” Snape said, his eyes glittering dangerously again.

“Yes,” Harry said. “It’s veritaserum.”

Snape looked taken aback. Clearly he hadn’t expected Harry to know the answer. Recovering, Snape said, “Indeed, it is. Three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips”—he shook the crystal bottle slightly—“right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter…. Then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.”

Harry said nothing. While he would not object to allowing Snape and Dumbledore to dose him with truth serum, it would need to be at the right time. And now was definitely not the right time. “Your office is the least of your worries,” Harry muttered under his breath as he added the chopped ginger roots to his cauldron.

“What did you say?” Snape rasped.

“Nothing, sir,” Harry said quickly.

Just then, there was a knock on the dungeon the door. Harry smiled in relief as Professor Karkaroff entered the room and accosted Snape. This was the time he had asked the train to take him back to. This was the opening he was looking for.

Harry listened closely to their conversation as he stirred the armadillo bile into his potion. He had learned from experience that adding a touch of peppermint acted as a catalyst, reducing the simmering time from 10 minutes to 2 minutes to reach the desired color and consistency. It also made the potion more fast acting. And today of all days, he was going to need its assistance.

As Karakaroff stared out moodily from the corner, his arms crossed, Snape instructed the class to decant their potions and bring a vial up to the front for grading. Harry quickly filled three vials. One he placed on Snape’s desk, the other two he slipped into his robes for later. As the class cleaned up their stations and cleared out, Harry deliberately dumped the remainder of his potion on the floor, giving him an excuse to hide behind Snape’s desk and listen to Karakaroff’s conversation.

“What’s so urgent?” he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff.

“This,” said Karkaroff, pulling up the left-hand sleeve of his robe and showing Snape his inner forearm. This time, Harry understood what Karkaroff was showing Snape.

“Well,” said Karkaroff. “Do you see? It’s never been this clear. Never since—”

“Put it away!” snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom. 

“But you must have noticed—“ Karkaroff began in an agitated voice.

“We can talk later, Karkaroff!” spat Snape. “Potter! What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up my potion, Professor,” Harry said, straightening up and showing Snape the sodden rag he was holding. Snape looked furious. Turning away in a show of putting his belongings into his school bag, he slipped one of the vials of the wit-sharpening potion from his pocket and drained it in one quick swallow. Hearing the Potion’s classroom door close behind Kararoff, Harry dropped all pretense and turned around, looking directly at Snape. “He’s right, you know.”

“Potter, what are you talking about?”

Harry half expected to see steam come out of Snape’s head, such was the anger, and now the burgeoning suspicion, that was exuding from the Potion’s Master.

“Voldemort is getting stronger,” Harry responded evenly. “That’s why your Dark Mark is becoming clearer.”

Harry felt Snape reach out and try to probe his mind, but Harry blocked him easily. In the next instant, Snape had his wand at Harry’s throat.

“Who are you?” he hissed.

Harry remained calm, his arms relaxed at his sides. “I am still Harry Potter,” he said, “I’m just from another time. I came back to …” Harry paused, considering his words. “I came back in an attempt to right some of the wrongs of the past. To save lives.” Harry looked pointedly at Snape, “To save your life.”

Snape still held his wand to Harry’s neck. “What makes you think I want to be saved?”

“Even if you don’t,” Harry said lightly, “I can assure you that you will not like how the next few years play out if everything stays the same.” Harry let his words sink in before adding, “I can also tell you who broke into your office, and who has been stealing Boomslang skin. And it isn’t a student.”

This seemed to give Snape pause. “And why should I believe you? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t curse the imposter you obviously are right now and hand you over to the Ministry?”

“Because no matter how much I look like my father, I have my mother’s eyes.” Harry stared unerringly into Snape’s obsidian orbs. “And you loved her.”

Harry watched as Snape sucked in a sharp breath, his grip tightening on his wand.

“You loved her,” Harry repeated. “And after Voldemort killed her, you were the one who found her. I’m guessing you never told anyone that.”

Snape’s eyes were wide, his voice a harsh whisper. “If I never told anyone, than how would you know?”

“You gave me your memories before you died,” Harry replied.

Snape looked incredulous. “Why on Merlin’s green earth would I do that?”

“Because Dumbledore asked you to.”