Disclaimer: This story is based on characters owned and created by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Pairings: Harry/Scorpius, Scorpius/Harry, Draco/Astoria, Neville/Hannah, and Ron/Hermione.
Warnings: Slash: Male homosexual relationships, violence, adult language, mild sexual situations, implied sexual intercourse, Post-DH, EWE, and Time Travel.
Harry Potter clutched Draco Malfoy's hawthorn wand in his hand. This was it—his whole life had come down to this moment—he would either defeat Voldemort, and fulfill his destiny, or he would fail, and the most feared Dark Lord would take over the world for he would have no true opposition.
"I defeated Malfoy," he whispered. "The question is: does the Elder Wand recognize me as its true master? Does the Elder Wand know this?"
Rage suffused Voldemort's face, and he lifted the Elder Wand, aiming it at the wizard who was potentially its master. "Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus." Harry watched as the spells sped towards each other. He saw the Elder Wand rip itself from Voldemort's hand and fly through the air; it arched, nearly reached the ceiling, and then it fell down. Harry's hand shot out and caught it. His fingers curled around the wand as the two spells slammed into one another.
A sound echoed in the room, booming loudly. The spell he'd cast forced most of the Killing Curse to reverse, but a small part of it continued on toward Harry Potter. The sheer power hanging in the air froze him in place, and he was unable to move as that trickle of sickly green light continued to race through the air at him. It crashed into his chest just as he saw Voldemort get hit with the majority of the spell. He watched his nemesis crumple to the floor, looking sunken and defeated, and though he should have felt triumph, all that passed through his body was an intense feeling of relief.
The sense of peace he felt knowing he'd fulfilled the prophecy and avenged his parents was only overcome by the agony that tore through his body as he fell backwards. Then his hip began to burn fiercely and he spared a brief thought to the resurrection stone that was in his pocket. There was a flash of magic and he felt the Elder Wand heat up in his hand as well. He fell back and landed on the invisibility cloak, which was warm and rippling.
All three items glowed briefly, and then the Hallows did what they were meant to do—they saved their master from death. The cloak wrapped around Harry Potter, and he vanished just as the barrier he'd cast to protect everyone else came crashing down.
They rushed forward, calling his name frantically, but he wasn't there. Harry Potter was gone.
When Harry next awoke, he was lying on his back, staring up at a beautiful blue sky. Puffy white clouds hung still; there was no breeze to move them along. He felt the soft green grass beneath his hands and wondered if this was Heaven.
A wry and sad smile appeared on his face. He'd died again—twice in one day. That was all right though. He'd seen Voldemort die with his own eyes. He'd succeeded, and now everyone that he cared about and trusted would be able to live their lives without the terror that had haunted them for so many years.
He moved his hand slightly and felt the liquid sensation of his invisibility cloak lying beneath him. He fisted it tightly in his hands as memories washed through him: his first real Christmas present, the Mirror of Erised, late night visits to the kitchen, sneaking out to see Hagrid, saving Sirius in third year, and many more.
He rolled over onto the grass and winced as the stone dug into his hip and two pieces of wood pressed into his back. First, he picked up the piece of hawthorn, and handled it lovingly—Draco Malfoy's wand—he'd defeated Lord Voldemort because of Draco Malfoy. He chuckled softly, almost in disbelief. He slid it into his pocket and reached for the other wand, the Elder Wand: Grindelwald's wand, Dumbledore's wand, Malfoy's wand, his wand.
Harry pushed it into his pocket as well. He folded the invisibility cloak methodically—his mind kept wandering. He was dead. He had to be dead, but then, why weren't his parents here? Where was Sirius? Had he been sent to a different place than them?
He lay on his back, taking deep breaths to keep himself from panicking. He tried to focus on the white clouds—that wouldn't happen to him! It couldn't, not after everything he'd been through. He was staring at the non-moving clouds almost viciously when his vision was overcome by a piercing shade of gray. "Malfoy?" he asked in confusion. "Draco Malfoy—you died?"
The gray eyes widened and the blond head shook. "No, I'm Scorpius Malfoy, Draco is my father." Those eyes narrowed slightly and scanned his features intently, stopping on the scar. "You're Harry Potter," he breathed in disbelief.
Harry nodded his head slowly. Of course he was Harry Potter; everyone knew that, much to his distaste. "Wait, Draco's son?" he asked in confusion.
He nodded. "You disappeared twenty-five years ago," Scorpius answered.
Harry's jaw dropped and he jumped to his feet in disbelief. He spun around to see that he'd been lying on the rolling lawn of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He pulled the Elder Wand from his pocket. "Tempus," he muttered. He read the glowing words several time before his mind finally processed them. 10:47 a.m. Thursday May 4, 2023.
His whole frame began trembling, and he didn't hear Scorpius calling his name. His head swung left and right, frantically looking at the scenery that was so familiar, but different. The lawns were smooth once more, and the air smelled fresh and clean. The scent of death and pain was gone, as were the dead bodies that had given their blood for the ground to drink.
A large monument off to his side—by the edge of the lake right next to Dumbledore's white tomb—drew his attention and he slowly approached it. It was black marble, a direct contrast to the white stone of the Headmaster's resting place. He ran his fingers over the words engraved in the lightning bolt: Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, and Conqueror. May he live forever in our memories and never be forgotten.
Harry's eye ran up the large monument and locked onto the symbol at the top. It was a triangle, with a line down the middle, inside of a circle. "The Hallows." His finger touched the tip of the lightning bolt, tracing the symbol, and memories assailed him. They were memories of his life, of his pain, suffering, and secrets, memories that the Weasleys, Hermione, and so many others had offered to share, so that the world would know who the Boy Who Lived had been.
Harry wrapped an arm around himself and trembled in fear. He felt bare, naked, without protection from the harsh gaze of the world. Everything he was, everything he'd ever been had been shown without his permission. He'd been betrayed by those he'd thought he could trust. They'd always known he'd hated the public tearing away his privacy and invading his life, and these people had striped him raw.
All that he knew was that those who had always sworn to stand beside him had betrayed him. And now—now all he could do was accept that nothing about his life was sacred anymore, and that he had no secrets.
They'd shown him at his lowest, when he'd been broken by Sirius's death, desperately wanting nothing more than to follow his godfather off the mortal plane. They'd shown him torn open and bloody as he wept over Cedric's dead body.
Every bad memory that he had, that someone had seen, seemed to be embedded into this statue. It was a living monument of his nightmares, his personal hell, and it replayed over and over without end.
His shoulders began to shake, and he felt despair overwhelming him. The darkness that he'd been fighting his whole life was welling up inside of him. The emotions were eating away at him: despair, loss, worthlessness, pity, fear, anger, hatred, and loneliness—God, the loneliness.
The emotions tore through him, and his eyes welled with agonizing tears as the memories shifted to the horrors no one had seen. He was watching a flash of green light streak towards him, and his mother's dying screams were echoing through his head. He was four years old and he'd just dropped a burning hot skillet on his foot, while his aunt screamed at him in the background. He was seven and he was locked inside the cupboard under the stairs—no matter how he moved the spiders continued to crawl all over him and the darkness ate away at his vision. He was in primary school, and the children were calling him a freak and picking on him, telling him that no one would ever love him.
The blood drained from Harry's face as the memories jumped ahead to his time at Hogwarts. He was in the Forbidden Forest watching a wraith-like creature drink the blood of a Unicorn. His hands were pressed to Quirrell's face, and the man's skin was melting. He was staring down at Hermione, one of his two friends, as she lay petrified in the infirmary. The Basilisk's fang punctured his arm, and the poison was burning through his body. The Dementors were eating away at him, draining him of happiness. Sirius's dying scream resounded through the castle as he was kissed, and Harry hadn't been able to save him—then the Time Turner changed that, but Sirius was gone anyway, he never got to live with his godfather.
He was in the graveyard at Little Hangleton, bound and helpless as Wormtail stole his blood and resurrected Voldemort. He was facing the Wizengamot and possible expulsion from the only true home he'd ever known. Harry's hand was torn open and bloody from the lines Umbridge was forcing him to write. Sirius was falling through the veil, and Lupin wouldn't let him follow. Voldemort was inside his mind, possessing him, and he felt dirty, tainted—a failure.
He stared in disbelief as the curse tore from his wand and ripped Malfoy's chest open; blood was raining through the air. He was travelling across a lake of Inferi moments before he would be forced to force a potion down the Headmaster's throat, unknowingly aiding in Dumbledore's death. He was frozen in place and Severus Snape was speaking those hateful two words. He could do nothing but watch the Headmaster plummet from the Astronomy Tower.
The horrific memories of his life continued to assail his mind. This monument—this betrayal—had been made in his honor. The fools had made Harry Potter's personal Dementor.
Scorpius watched as Harry trembled and shook, saw his eyes widen in terror. His father had been right to contest the statue. In fact, Neville Longbottom and the surviving Slytherins had all protested its creation; they'd lost the fight.
Not one of the people who truly understood, or cared for Harry had viewed those memories or aided in its creation. It was a matter of honor—pureblood honor, and a repayment for the debt that everyone in the wizarding world owed Harry Potter.
The Malfoys, Draco in particular, had been disgusted by it, and what Harry's former friends had done to him. They'd copied all of their memories of Harry into this monument so that he'd never be forgotten, and in so doing, they'd betrayed Harry in the worst way. They had torn away the last remnants of his privacy and exposed him to the world—his secrets weren't even his own in death.
Draco had forbidden Scorpius from touching it and he never had.
He'd learned about Harry Potter from his father. The stories were always honest, and even when Draco was cast in a bad light, he still told the truth. Potter had saved his family, and he would repay that debt by honoring Harry Potter, and what his rival would have wished for.
Scorpius walked forward, closing the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around the shuddering man protectively. Harry Potter was alive—he was alive! And now he would see just what the truth was, and how he'd been misled.
Harry leaned back against the muscled chest and continued to cry. He didn't understand why they'd done what they'd done, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He'd been betrayed—again. He was surprised, disappointed, and livid with himself for caring for those people all of these years only to have been betrayed by them yet again.
Scorpius reached forward and entwined his hand with Harry's gently pulling the boy's fingers away from the stone, stopping the memories from flashing before Harry's eyes.
Harry was enfolded back against Scorpius's chest and he glanced up slowly, watching as Scorpius glared at the stone with loathing. "Father tried to keep them from making it," he said. "Yet, they made it anyway," he spat.
Harry relaxed completely against the son of the man who'd been his greatest rival for years. His eyes hardened, and disdain and rage began to overtake the gut-wrenching horror and sorrow. He had no doubt that Scorpius's words were true. If he knew one thing about the Malfoys, he knew that they valued family and honor above everything. He'd saved their family, thus, they would treat him with respect and honor the sacrifice they'd believed he had made.
"They'll pay," he vowed. "There can be no forgiveness for this—no redemption."
Scorpius didn't disagree. He simply tightened his arms and rested his chin on Harry's shoulder. The legend of Harry Potter may fascinate others, but he'd always been fascinated by the boy that was Harry Potter. The boy that'd beat his father in every Quidditch game they'd ever played, the boy who'd torn his father open with a deadly curse, and had then shown remorse for harming someone who'd been about to cast an Unforgivable on him, and the boy who'd sent his grandfather to Azkaban.
The same boy who'd saved his family, after his grandmother had lied to the Dark Lord about Harry's death, resulting in his downfall.
This boy in his arms wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man and he'd been damaged. If Harry had accepted his father's hand in friendship all those years ago, life would have been different. Now, he would do what he'd been dreaming of since he'd first heard the stories of Harry Potter. The sixteen year old loosened his arms for a moment and slowly and carefully spun Harry around. He stared into those solemn green eyes.
Scorpius extended his hand and whispered, "I'm Scorpius Malfoy." Would it be the same? Would he be rejected as well—or would life change?
Harry smirked and extended his own, wrapping his calloused palm around the smooth, pale hand. "Potter, Harry Potter."
Edit - 6/1/13. Disclaimer/Warnings list was revised: there will be very mild sexual situations and there will be no graphic sexual intercourse, implied happenings only! Rating at the top was changed from MA/R/NC-17 to M. These mistakes about future content was brought to my attention by The Familiar Fox, who was under the impression that this story would break the rules.