Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: This is not what I typically write, and is completely uncharacteristic of me. A friend of mine bet that I couldn't write a fluffy story, one that could elicit an 'awww' from my readers. So, I accepted, and am releasing this today as a birthday special. Tomorrow, May 20th, is my birthday.
Amerision is perfectly capable of writing stories that do not involve murder, backstabbing, dark themes, and senseless violence.
Harry had lost everything.
His parents, his friends, even his free will in life.
Just days ago, he had stood before a dying Lord Voldemort.
As the most feared Dark Lord in modern history had slipped away, he felt himself lose yet another thing.
His purpose, his reason to keep on living. What would he do now?
Anyone who Harry had even remotely known was dead, and now, more than ever, Harry wished to join them in their peace.
A mere several centimeters separated himself from the Veil of Death, its fabric rustling softly in an unseen wind, playing to the tune of the universe.
A single step would end his pain, his life of torment and unrest, of misery and hopelessness.
And so, it was with a relieved heart that Harry Potter left this world forever.
The first thing that Harry felt was excruciating pain, and a sensation of being thrown into a wall before passing through it completely.
Light burst in his eyes and he felt himself falling…
…falling, spinning, stretched into infinity only to be crushed back into existence.
And then, there was merciful silence.
Harry registered himself lying facedown on rough, unyielding material.
Gentle rain fell into his hair as thunder crashed in the heavens above him.
Was this Death?
Harry opened his eyes.
He was on asphalt.
In the middle of the street.
Gathering himself with a groan, Harry pushed himself off the ground and brushed himself off, looking around.
It appeared to be a suburb, with neat, prim looking houses lining both sides of the street, completely identical.
Privet Drive, Surrey.
The land of the living.
But that wasn't the thing that bothered him.
Most of Surrey was a wasteland, destroyed by Voldemort's forces during the war.
And yet, here it was, completely untouched, detached from the evil that had overwhelmed the world.
Well, there was only one way to make sure, and the answer resided in Number Four, Privet Drive.
You could always repair a building, but you could never bring back the dead.
As Harry neared the immaculate house, he heard some commotion inside.
Quickening his pace, he entered the property and looked into the window, afraid of what he would see.
Vernon Dursley stood above a crumpled form in the living room, the small body obscured by the shadows, no bigger than a child.
He was shouting at the unmoving figure, occasionally kicking him and slapping him across the face.
Harry stood, horrified as the eldest Dursley continued to beat the unresisting child viciously, laughing with each cry of pain.
Vernon threw the hurt youngling across the room and into the light, revealing a boy of perhaps five with a mop of unruly black hair.
A memory flashed into his mind, one of pain, broken ribs, despair, loneliness…
Within seconds he was at the door, pummeling franticly at the sickeningly white wood.
The noise instantly stopped, and all was quiet once more.
He heard some shuffling, and a slam in the house before the door opened slowly, revealing a flushed Vernon Dursley.
"Can I help you?" he said tersely, beady eyes taking in his robes before scowling. His forehead was damp from the exertion, the pain inflicted…
Harry pushed him back roughly, causing the larger man to stumble backwards in surprise and crash into the square decorative table and the hollow, expensive vase Harry had always wanted to destroy.
The table broke under the weight, shattering Petunia's clay masterpiece.
Ignoring him, Harry looked around desperately, seeing no signs of life.
Turning back to the startled man, Harry grasped his polo shirt roughly and lifted him clear off his feet.
"Where is he?" he shouted, shaking Vernon.
"I…I…I have no idea what you're t-talking about," he managed, quivering in fear. This man…he looked so much like him.
His eyes left his Uncle's for a moment, resting on a small door on the side of the stairs.
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
"Liar…" he whispered, before dropping him to the floor.
Harry ran to the cupboard door, pulling at the handle.
It didn't budge.
Drawing his wand, he whispered an 'alohomora' and flung the door open.
Dropping to his haunches, he looked into the darkness that permeated the small space.
Two teary emerald eyes stared back at him through the shadows, belonging to the small boy he had seen earlier from the window.
He scrambled backwards in fear, trembling from pain and terror.
Five year old Harry Potter backed against the wall, starring at the man in the doorway, looking so much like himself.
His own eyes, the same ones that his Aunt Petunia scorned him for every day of his life, watched him sorrowfully.
Messy, raven black hair sat atop of the man's head. The imitation closed his hanging mouth and moved forward, reaching out at him.
"Dad?" Harry whispered, afraid of rejection.
Harry's heart broke at the sight of himself there, so weak…so defenseless. He couldn't bear to say no. He could only nod yes, smiling sadly, to comfort this war torn child so much like himself.
His younger self let off a small gasp of surprise before throwing his small body against his, clinging to his neck desperately in case he should ever let go.
Harry closed his arms around him, clutching him fiercely to his chest.
His younger self responded by tightening his grip on Harry, tears streaming down his face, still trembling slightly.
Rubbing his back softly and murmuring soothing words into his ears, Harry heard the desperate mantra the child in his arms was repeating over and over again.
"Don't go…Don't leave me here again…Don't go, don't leave…"
And Harry didn't.
Ablack haired man sat on a park bench, watching a little boy run around the playground, interacting with the other children and speeding around faster than the eye could track.
Several months of a happy home had done wonders to little Harry Potter, bringing him out of his shell and wiping away the traces of the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his remaining family.
Harry's musing was cut short as he noticed with shock that his clothes had turned a lively shade of purple.
Returning the clothing to normal with a wave of his hand, he looked up to the guilty expression of his five year old self.
"Harry!" he reprimanded, rising to his feet. "What did I tell you abou-"
He stopped short at the flinch the young child gave.
The small boy had stepped backwards in terror, head hanging fearfully.
Despite the progress they had made, however, his younger self would still react as if he was going to be hit whenever Harry raised his voice or made any remotely threatening gestures. He had quickly come to learn that this Harry had been through much worse than he had.
Harry's anger disappeared almost instantly, replaced by deep shame. His expression softened as he took his counterpart in his arms, picking him up and giving his apologies.
Rubbing his shaking back as he did those months ago, he waited patiently for him to calm down.
But then, he heard a funny noise into his shoulder.
He had been tricked.
Looking down at the grinning face of his five year old self, Harry smiled.
Because maybe, just maybe there was hope for Harry Potter after all.
A/N: Did I succeed? Am I doomed to make serious, dark fics forever? Suggestions are welcome.