R e t u r n

Summary: As an Azkaban inmate in 1980 due to a strange time paradox, Harry tries to cope and survive in hell as he slowly returns to his own time.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of JK Rowling's amazing characters, nor do I remotely own the Harry Potter novels.

Harry James Potter was incarcerated in Azkaban on July 31, 1980, with a sentence of seven years, for the torture and consequent murder of one unarmed Peter Pettigrew, with added charges for killing an equally defenseless squib, here nameless.

Harry James Potter was actually born several hours before Harry James Potter was incarcerated, on the same day.

This strange occurrence has no real comprehendible explanation, and will, in the future, be labeled as an impossible phenomenon of time travel, even by magical standards. However, it did happen, and Harry James Potter was thrown into Azkaban for seven horrible years, despite his counterpart’s innocent existence in the miserable Dursley household during his stay.

One might ask just how was this Harry James Potter was in Azkaban when he was not even of that particular timeline, and why one Albus Dumbledore did not vouch for him, or even why his own parents did not come to question his unexplainable appearance. Harry had been transported back in time by a strange influx of various curses aimed at him, causing his body to be warped into a strange sort of magical black hole…or at least, something of that sort. No one knows for sure, nor will they ever. It was one of those strange phenomenon situations that happen now and then, unexplainable even with modern technology—muggle or magical.

As for the reason of no one coming to his aid, the simple truth was that Harry was guilty. Also, Albus Dumbledore was not aware of this trial, for he was away on a much-needed vacation in South America for two weeks, so he could not vouch for him. Even if he were present, he would do no such thing, for Albus Dumbledore did not know this young man, and the stranger was most definitely guilty of his crime, all the proof lead to it; Veritaserum wasn’t even necessary.

He had no reason to plead the green-eyed man’s innocence. The Hogwarts Headmaster would, of course, later be informed of his trial—but it was a brief mention, not nearly enough to merit his attention. The news of the squib and wizard’s deaths had only gained the old man’s further sadness, but the criminal would only muster a sense of failure in Dumbledore, as if it were his fault that this anonymous young man had assassinated one Peter Pettigrew.

In some ways, it was his fault. Or would be.

Harry Potter’s parents were quite literally unaware of his existence—well, that Harry’s existence. They were, of course, aware of their little newborn baby’s existence, the same Harry James Potter—but most definitely not their son-from-the-future. Nor would they ever, for they would be dead in a year and three month’s time at the hands of one former Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Plus the Wizengamot was in a hurry because they also had to judge two recently captured Death Eaters and didn’t have time to check the backgrounds of an obvious murderer, despite the similar name and probable relation to one James and Lily Potter. They didn’t care if he was sixteen—after all, Wizard maturity came at seventeen and thus he would be considered an adult in merely a year’s time. However, even then, it was only barely legal to throw him into Azkaban. This only came lawfully because of the severity of his crime.

Too bad they couldn’t give him the Dementor’s Kiss.

Everyone voted the stranger guilty—a year for the use of Unforgivables, two more years for the murder of a squib, another three for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and lastly, a year added out of pure spite. It was a trial that lasted less than half and hour, despite the murderer’s unheard pleads to get Albus Dumbledore, the Order, anybody—after all, he had a Silencing Charm on.

Not soon after the Wizengamot’s final word of the seven-year sentence, two Dementors glided in and grabbed the young man by the arms, leading him away. The convicted screamed in silence and struggled, his eyes dilating from the bad memories and utter cold. But no one felt pity for the recently sixteen year old, and the boy’s face faded from their memory with time, letting his once vibrant green eyes rot within the thick walls of prison, forgotten.

Thus leading to Harry James Potter’s long, miserable seven-year stay in Azkaban.

Peter Pettigrew Sr was not having the best of days.

His wand had been accidentally snapped because it had somehow found its way below one of the monstrous tires of those blasted moving things muggles used nowadays, and he now had to—embarrassingly enough—go to get it repaired for a handsome sum at Olivanders. To add insult to injury, he’d been mugged by chain-bearing teenagers and beaten to a pulp behind an alleyway in muggle London. He couldn’t even call the ministry for aid, where he worked, out of lack of magical powers.

It was incredibly frustrating.

Currently he was limping towards his old friend’s house, the squib christened as Reuben Malfoy though he preferred to go by Rob nowadays. Peter had never asked, but it was obvious that the man was still sore about being disowned after hiding his lack of magic for eleven years, despite the fact that this had occurred several decades ago. It had been a terrible embarrassment to the Malfoy family—so much that they’d simply proclaimed him dead instead of announcing they’d birthed a squib and hadn’t noticed until his letter had failed to arrive.

They hadn’t grieved his passing long.

Peter Pettigrew Sr winced as he knocked on the former Malfoy’s door, attempting to ignore the pain of his muscles as he did so.

“Who’s there?” came a gruff voice, hardened from anger over the years.

“Rob,” Peter called out hoarsely, “Rob, are you there?”

“Oh, hey Peter! Is it you old chap?” The door opened, and the scruffy looking squib gave a startled gasp, “Oy! You don’t look too good. What happened? Come in, come in!”

“It was awful, Rob,” Pettigrew Sr said miserably, “Nastiest day of my life. It can’t get any worse.” He hobbled inside, grateful for his friend’s help. “I was in muggle London today, looking for a gift for my son to give to those Potter friends he has, when my wand slipped and got turned into mush underneath one of those thingamaggigers muggles use these days for transportation…not much long after that I got kicked to a pulp and robbed off all my money…”

“Doesn’t sound very pretty, friend,” Rob sympathized, “Never had much love for muggles m’self. Need some cleaning up? I’ll lend you my shower.”

“No, no, that’s alright, thanks. Do you have some floo here?”

“Er…yeah, I think. Um…lemme go look for it. Never use it m’self, so, dunno if it’s still here…”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Pettigrew Sr sighed, wearily running a hand through his balding hair. He was not a particularly handsome man—he had large buckteeth and a rat-like demeanor, despite his good intents. He had a chubby face that lacked the usual Hufflepuff amiableness, watery blue eyes and a stubby nose. His clothing was in tatters and his hair a mess, but that could easily be corrected with a quick charm or so.

As a former Hufflepuff it had been difficult to gain a good position in the Ministry, but he’d managed—and quite well, in his opinion. He had a good annual salary, a good family, good job…he wasn’t rich by any stretch of the means, but he got by. Right now he was sufficiently high up to be recognized by the Minister—he’d even spoken to the man on a few occasions, too! He was an ambitious man and hoped to go even higher.

“Here we go,” came Rob’s voice from one of his stuffy closets, “Found it!”

“Good, good,” Peter murmured, “Thank you. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh no trouble at all, friend,” the squib said amiably as he emerged from the mess, “You get yourself fixed up, okay? Send me a call by the telephone once you’re feeling better.”

“Fellytone?” Pettigrew Sr asked bewilderedly as he accepted the floo powder.

Rob chuckled, “Never mind. Send me an owl, then.”

“Right,” Peter said, still sort of puzzled, “I’ll do that. Thanks again.”

Peter Pettigrew would’ve used the floo power and traveled to St Mungo’s. He would’ve gotten himself patched up efficiently and quickly, and returned safely to his house. He would’ve gotten home and told his wife about his ordeal and eventually looked back and laughed at it. He would’ve gotten his broken wand fixed, and his life would’ve continued on as usual.

He would’ve lived a happy life.

If only he hadn’t been killed.

Just as Peter Pettigrew Sr was about to throw the floo powder into the fireplace and speak the necessary words, a loud CRACK interrupted his motions, startling them both. Almost immediately after, a scream of utter fury erupted behind him.

“WORMTAIL!”

It was a cry of total anger and hate, an icy statement that would chill the bones. It was the shrill howl of a lunatic blinded by the single-minded need for vengeance.

Both squib and wizard turned around, frightened and bewildered and scared, seeing only a young man about sixteen with a mop of wild black hair and blazing green eyes, the eyes of a madman, a murderer—

“Peter Pettigrew,” the raven-haired devil hissed the words with dripping hate, words that were not of the English language but yet still somewhat comprehendible. Then, sounds that should’ve never come from a human’s mouth emerged from the young man’s throat, spitting and hissing like an angry snake.

Frozen, Peter Pettigrew Sr looked utterly confused and scared to the point of pissing himself, his watery eyes filled with fear. “Who are you?” he managed to squeak, terrified. “What do you want with me?”

The green-eyed lunatic shrieked with fury, “Do you not recognize me, you sniveling cowardMurderer…you dare question just who I am?” he visibly calmed down, and his eyes half-closed as if bored, his back slouching slightly, “Well…you always were a rat…”

“What do you want with me?” Peter whispered again, horrified, backing away slightly, away from those insane eyes. Rob had already retreated behind the closet door, very nearly pissing himself in an attempt to remain silent while he witnessed his friend’s possible last living moments.

The stranger grinned, crazy-like, cat-like…snake-like…

“I only want to watch you writhe in pain, you filthy rat…I want to watch you scream…” An idea came. The rat was cornered. The smile widened, “Crucio.”

Pettigrew Sr screamed. Unimaginable pain raced through his body, from the tips of his eyelashes to the hairs on his toes, it was only pain, pain, pain…

“How do you like that, Wormtail? Did my parents feel this at their last moments? Did Sirius? How does it feel…the pain of all those innocent people you’ve killed and betrayed? HOW DOES IT FEEL?”

Screams. Rob watched in horror as Peter began frothing at the mouth.

“No…you will feel worse. Much worse. Worse you sonnova bitch! CRUCIO!”

“STOP!” Rob screamed from behind his hiding place, his words coming by themselves in a last ditch attempt to save the withering sanity of his only wizard friend, “STOP YOU MADMAN! YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! STOP! STOP!”

“SHUT UP YOU BASTARD!” Suddenly the stranger’s wand swiveled in the direction of the squib, “HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE! AVADA KEDAVRA!”

The green light was the last thing Reuben Malfoy ever saw.

There was a moment of silence as the depth of the deed hit the young man. His smile faded, and a panicked look emerged from within him, his eyes startled. He’d killed someone. Killed. It was different from torture, which didn’t always lead to death. He’d killed. Perhaps not an innocent, and perhaps he’d done the world some good, but he’d nonetheless killed someone that was not exactly involved.

He’d killed someone.

There was no turning back.

“Look what you made me do, Wormtail,” the raven-haired man whispered softly, deadly, “Look what my hate for you has made me…” he grinned once again, widely, the intense feeling of casting the dark spells making him feel a thrill he’d never felt before. “Crucio! Crucio! CRUCIO!”

Peter screamed and screamed and screamed—

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

And there was silence.

Ten aurors barged into the house seconds after the final green light, and immediately disarmed and arrested one Harry James Potter. His wand, when cast by Priori Incantatem showed only Unforgivables, sufficient proof of his crime. Despite this, his trail merely merited a small paragraph on the second page of the Daily Prophet, largely overshadowed by the capture of two Death Eaters that had once had a very high position in society.

He was forgotten by the court members soon after, nameless to those who would know him in the future, locked away in Hell. All perhaps one lone Peter Pettigrew, son of the victim murdered, who would vaguely remember the name of Harry James as something other than his best friend’s son.

Yet, despite this…

He would be otherwise forgotten and nameless until the day he returned to the world…bitter and half-crazed.

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This was written in April, so it's a bit old. Only just recently have I started writing again, so I thought it would be alright if I started posting this fic. I have up to chapter 9 as of yet. The next chapter should be posted by next Sunday.