One-Shot: A Cynical Voice

Hi all, 

Here’s another one-shot. It’s a time-travelling fix-it, an old but popular trope. Harry finds that he has an older version of himself stuck in his head after a botched ritual sends his soul into the past. There will be some differences from canon, even without the changes Harry is going to make as his older self guides him.

Chapter 1 - The Voice In His Head.

Harry bolted upright in bed, a scream dying in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs as if trying to escape. The nightmare clung to him like cobwebs, refusing to fade: Hogwarts' ancient stones crumbling like sand castles, Dementors descending on London in a writhing black tide, witches and wizards locked in deadly combat as orange spellfire lit up the afternoon sky. 

His scar blazed with such intensity that for one terrifying moment, he was certain Voldemort himself stood in the darkened room. 

His hand fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. As the familiar weight settled on his nose, his cramped bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive swam into focus. The shadows in the corners remained just shadows, no matter how many times he checked them for lurking dark lords.

Harry pushed himself up from the sweat-soaked sheets and stumbled to the dresser mirror. His reflection startled him. His usually unruly hair lay flat against his skull, plastered by cold sweat. His face was pale, making the angry red lightning bolt on his forehead look like a fresh wound. His fingers reached up and traced the scar's familiar pattern. The skin burned beneath his touch, as if someone had pressed a hot coal to his forehead.

"What was that?" he whispered, trying to hold onto the rapidly fading details. "That nightmare felt too real..."

"You look awful."

Harry whirled around, his heart leaping into his throat. "Who's there?" 

Harry’s eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice. His hand plunged into his pyjama pocket, finding nothing. His wand—he'd left it by the bed. He lunged for it, snatching it up and pointing it at every corner of his room.

"If I had really been an intruder," the voice drawled, "you'd be in serious trouble right now. First rule: never leave your wand out of reach. Get yourself a wand holster."

"Where are you?" Harry demanded.

"No intruder here. I'm speaking from inside your head."

Harry lowered his wand slowly, his stomach doing a peculiar flip. Now that he focused on it, the voice didn't seem to come from anywhere in the room—it resonated directly in his mind, like a thought that wasn't his own. But how was he supposed to know what a voice in his head should sound like? 

"I think I prefer the intruder. Am I going mad?"

A dry chuckle echoed through his mind. "Not yet. Give it a few years. You'll get there eventually."

"Who are you?"

There was a pause, as if the voice was debating on whether to answer. 

"I'm you," the voice finally answered. "An older version of you from the future."

"What?" Harry's knees felt weak, and he sat heavily on his bed. “I have so many questions.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. Here he was, speaking with a voice in his head as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He should be more concerned about his sanity, but after three years at Hogwarts, this barely cracked his top ten list of bizarre situations.

His thoughts began to crystallise as the initial panic ebbed away. There was something oddly reassuring about the voice, despite its sardonic edge—like finding a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. If it had meant him harm, surely it would have struck while he was fumbling for his wand, which meant he had time to think this through properly. 

Harry paused. Just how much power did this voice have? Was it merely a passenger in his mind, or something more sinister—like the diary that had possessed Ginny? His fingers tightened around his wand. No, he couldn't let his imagination spiral him into another panic.

What would Hermione do in his position? What questions would she ask? He ran through a checklist in his mind. Start with the basics.

"What should I call you?" Harry asked. "Calling you by my name will get confusing rather quickly."

"Then call me James."

"That's my Dad's name,” Harry snapped. “Associating you with my Dad is too weird."

"Our Dad," the voice corrected him. "And technically, I'm old enough to be yours. Now there's a thought—fathering yourself. Even by magical standards, that would be properly mental."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Pick something else."

"Fine. Call me Hadrian. A name I earned, or perhaps was burdened with, in the future. It has more gravitas than Harry, for the role I undertook at least."

“Sounds pretentious,” Harry said, before moving on to the next question. “How did you travel back in time? Did you use a time-turner? It shouldn’t even be possible.”

His recent adventures with Hermione had taught him that. After Sirius had escaped on the back of Buckbeak, he had questioned Hermione extensively on the time-turner. He must have been loopy, because, for a brief moment, he considered using the time turner to go further back, to the day of his parent’s death, to save them from Voldemort. It had made perfect sense to him at the time. Unfortunately, Hermione had shot down the idea. Time-turners were extremely limited in their use and could only go back five hours into the past. 

"Time-turners?" Hadrian let out a harsh laugh. "No, this is something else entirely. Something new. Something desperate. When you've got nothing left to lose, you'd be amazed what magic can do."

Harry's brows furrowed. "Care to explain further?"

"Not particularly." 

"How did you end up in my head?"

"No idea. I sent my soul back and was meant to take over your body, to fix everything. But something went wrong. I'm trapped in your scar now, where that fragment of Voldemort used to be."

Harry's mind snagged on the first revelation. "Hold on—you were trying to take over my body? What would have happened to me?"

"I didn't think about it too deeply. Or, didn't allow myself to." A pause. "War has a way of making the unthinkable seem necessary."

"You absolute wanker," Harry muttered, pacing across the worn floorboards. "Whatever horror show you came from, whatever reason you had for coming back in time, it gave you no bloody right to try and steal my life. You had your chance—"

"And I botched it spectacularly," Hadrian cut in, his tone sharp. "Trust me, I'm well aware. But we're stuck with each other now, so—"

Harry froze mid-stride as the rest of Hadrian's words finally registered. "Hang on—what do you mean by 'Voldemort's fragment'?"

The silence stretched so long that Harry wondered if Hadrian had gone. Then: "Sit down. This won’t be a pleasant conversation."

Harry perched on the edge of his bed. "Tell me."

"When Voldemort tried to kill you that night, something went wrong with his curse. It rebounded, yes, but a piece of his soul—torn apart by his murders—latched onto the only living thing it could find. You. Your scar wasn't just a curse mark. It was a Horcrux."

"A what?"

"Dark magic. The darkest. He split his soul into pieces and hid them in objects to anchor himself to life. You were an accidental one." Hadrian's voice turned grimly satisfied. "But when I arrived, my consciousness seemed to have... overwritten his fragment. Burnt it out completely. So there's that bit of good news, at least."

Harry's hand crept up to his scar, feeling nauseous. "I've had a piece of him inside me all this time? Does Dumbledore know?"

"Oh, he knows. Has known for a long time." The bitterness in Hadrian's voice could have curdled milk. "He's got his reasons for keeping it quiet, mind. Always has his reasons, our Dumbledore. But that's a conversation for another time.” 

Harry's hands clenched into fists. "If I was a... a Horcrux, did that mean—" His throat constricted around the words. "Did that mean I had to die? To destroy the fragment?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Yes," Hadrian finally said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "That was Dumbledore's grand plan. You were to be raised like a pig for slaughter, protected just long enough to die at the right moment. He believed you would have to let Voldemort kill you willingly, to destroy the Horcrux."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. The room seemed to tilt sideways. "And he's known... all this time? Every smile, every kind word, every gesture... while knowing I'd have to—"

"Die? Yes." Hadrian's tone hardened. "He convinced himself it was for the Greater Good. That's always been his weakness—playing chess with people's lives, moving pieces on a board only he can see. Don't mistake me—he cares for you, in his way. But he cares for the greater good more."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

"If it helps, his plan would have worked. Did work, in my timeline. You survived, through a series of convenient magical loopholes that Dumbledore had suspected might save you. But he couldn't be certain—and he never told you. Never gave you the choice."

Harry lowered his hands, anger beginning to replace the nausea. "So he was just going to let me walk to my death without knowing why? Without knowing I might survive?"

"He believed—believes—that you wouldn't be able to walk to your death if you knew there was a chance of survival. That your sacrifice had to be pure." Hadrian's laugh was hollow. "The man's brilliant, but can be spectacularly thick sometimes."

"But now..." Harry touched his scar again. "You said you burnt out Voldemort's fragment when you arrived?"

"Completely. Seems my bumbled possession attempt had one upside—my soul fragment was apparently rather... incompatible with his. Like trying to mix oil and water, except the oil was on fire." There was a note of fierce satisfaction in Hadrian's voice. "You're free of him. That particular death sentence has been commuted."

Harry opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, then closed it again. On one hand, Hadrian had freed him from carrying around a piece of Voldemort's soul and being a sacrificial pawn. On the other hand, his future self had been perfectly willing to erase him from existence. The irony of that comparison wasn't lost on him.

A soft flutter of wings interrupted Harry's spiralling thoughts. Hedwig soared through the open window, looking particularly pleased with herself. Two letters were attached to her leg.

"Good timing, girl," Harry murmured, untying the letters while offering her an owl treat. “I need a distraction.”

He recognised Ron's messy scrawl on one envelope and Hermione's neat handwriting on the other.

He opened Ron's first:

Harry —

DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria! Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They HAVE to say yes, Harry, you can't miss the World Cup! It's only the biggest Quidditch event in the world! Some of the best players — you've got to see Viktor Krum, he's BRILLIANT!

Anyway, we'll come and get you whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss this! Percy's started at the Ministry — don't mention holidays around him unless you want a three-hour lecture about cauldron bottom thickness. He's been impossible, strutting around like he's Minister for Magic or something.

Fred and George are up to something in their room. Keep hearing explosions, but Mum's given up investigating.

Let me know if you can come! We’ll pick you up tomorrow. Even if your relatives say no, we’ll come and get you anyway. 

— Ron

P.S. Hermione's coming too! Dad's arranging everything. And there's supposed to be something massive happening at Hogwarts this year, Dad keeps hinting about it but won't say what.

Harry grinned at Ron's obvious excitement, then opened Hermione's letter. Her neat handwriting filled the page:

Dear Harry,

I hope you're doing alright and those awful relatives of yours aren't treating you too badly. I've been thinking about you constantly since term ended. It feels strange not seeing you every day. The summer seems unbearably long when I think about how much I miss our talks in the common room...

The letter continued with her usual updates about summer homework and books she was reading, but there was something different in her tone—something softer, more personal.

"It's already started," Hadrian mused, sounding almost nostalgic.

"What's started?" Harry asked, still staring at the letter. "She's never written quite like this before."

"I was incredibly dense once upon a time, too."

"Huh?"

Before Hadrian could respond, the floorboards outside his door creaked ominously.

His aunt's sharp rap on the door was followed by her shrill voice. "Up! Get up and start breakfast!"

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, his mind still reeling from everything Hadrian had told him. His future self remained silent as Harry fell into the familiar routine of cooking breakfast for the Dursleys.

As they ate, Aunt Petunia slapped a long list of chores onto the table beside Harry. He glanced at it, then decided to seize his chance.

"Er – Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon? My friend Ron has invited me to stay with his family."

Uncle Vernon's moustache twitched. "The family of redheads? The idiotic father who keeps asking me about electricity and his dumpy wife?"

Harry hid a wince. It was hypocritical to call Mrs Weasley dumpy when Uncle Vernon looked like a beached whale wearing a cheap suit. Still, he kept his face carefully neutral. Getting angry wouldn't help his chances of going to the World Cup.

"They've invited me to a sporting event,” Harry said. “They'll pick me up tomorrow."

"And I suppose you think we'll just let you go gallivanting off with those freaks?" 

"Well," Harry said carefully, "I was thinking of writing to my godfather about it. You know, Sirius Black? He'd want to know why I couldn't go..."

The effect was instantaneous. Vernon's face drained of colour, and Petunia's hand trembled as she set down her teacup.

"Fine," Vernon spat. "But they're not to come inside the house!"

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry spent the next few hours in the garden, pulling weeds as the scorching sun rose in the sky. Just as he wondered if Hadrian had gone for good, he spoke up again.

"The first thing you need to do is remove the trace from your wand."

"What are you talking about?" Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Since I'm stuck in your head, it's up to you to change the future. Which means, I'm going to be guiding you to improve yourself. If only someone had done the same with me when I was your age, things may not have turned out so bleak."

"Well, I'm not going to say no to an offer like that," Harry said, yanking out a particularly stubborn dandelion. "But there's still so much about this situation that you're not telling me."

"I'll explain everything slowly. But there's too much to do and so little time. The Quidditch World Cup is in two days."

Harry's hands stilled in the dirt. "Does something happen?"

"Yes." Hadrian's voice grew grim. "Death Eaters attack the campsite. They torture Muggles, cause panic, and set off the Dark Mark."

"But you got through it okay?"

"I did. But there was a victim I didn't know about for a long time after the fact. I would like to make sure they don't suffer like they did last time."

Harry sat back on his heels, frowning. "Hang on—we can't change time. Hermione told me all about it when we used the Time-Turner. Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time."

"This is different. When I came back, I created an entirely new timeline. The future I came from still exists—I didn't erase it. Think of it like a river splitting into two streams. Whatever we do here won't affect my timeline, but it will create a new future for you."

"If you say so," Harry muttered. "So, how do I remove the trace?"

"By carving some runes into your wand. They have to be carved with absolute precision. Three specific Nordic runes will disrupt the Ministry's tracking magic." 

"I don't know anything about runes," Harry said. "I didn't take the class." 

"Another thing we have to correct. You need to send an owl to Professor McGonagall and tell her you're dropping Divination and choosing Arithmancy and Ancient Runes instead, even if you have to enter the third-year class."

Harry frowned. "Do you think you can dictate the classes I attend?"

"You should have never chosen Divination. Our entire time at Hogwarts, we did the bare minimum to get by, even though we knew Voldemort was out there. It's a bit stupid really." 

The words hit home. Harry remembered choosing his classes, taking the easy route because that's what Ron was doing. He'd told himself it was fine—he had enough to deal with, between Quidditch and the constant threat to his life. But now, facing the consequences of those choices, the excuses felt hollow. He should have pushed himself harder and learned more, he wouldn't be in this position—struggling to understand basic magical concepts that could save his life.

"Sorry for being mediocre," Harry snarked. "It doesn't help me with my present situation." 

"Don't worry. I will guide you through it."

After finishing his chores and taking a quick shower, Harry slipped out to the street. He glanced around before extending his wand arm. With a deafening BANG, the purple triple-decker Knight Bus appeared.

Twenty nauseating minutes later, Harry stumbled into Diagon Alley. Following Hadrian's instructions, he headed straight for the apothecary.

"Ask for diluted dragon's blood," Hadrian directed. "And while we're here, get some nutrient potions."

"Nutrient potions?"

"To fix the damage from years of Dursley care. But don't take them until after the World Cup. Your body will need time to adjust to its explosive growth, and you have to be in your best condition if you’re going to play the hero."

Harry also brought a runic inscription set and parchment paper. He only had a day to get the runes right and remove the trace before the Weasleys picked him up. A tall order, considering his normal writing was barely legible.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry practised drawing each rune until his hand cramped, filling sheet after sheet until the symbols flowed naturally from his quill. It had taken him several hours, but watching the precise lines emerge from his careful strokes, he felt a spark of satisfaction. 

Even with all the practice, mastering runes wasn't something that came easily to everyone. Maybe he had an affinity for Ancient Runes. The thought made his earlier class choices seem even more wasteful.

Spending so much time drawing runes gave him plenty of opportunity to stew over his decisions at school. He remembered Hermione's excitement about Ancient Runes, how she'd tried to explain their practical applications in curse-breaking and warding. But he'd dismissed it, choosing instead to follow Ron into Divination where they could skive off and make up predictions about their tragic deaths. What a waste.

Harry laid out his tools—the runic inscription set with its silver blade and moonstone inlay, dragon's blood, and fine brushes. He measured his wand carefully, marking three sections with faint dots. Through the magnifying glass, the holly grain stood out in sharp detail.

His hands steady, Harry carved Algiz first, each stroke precise and shallow. Three drops of dragon's blood seeped into the protection rune, triggering a pulse of warmth from his wand. Dagaz followed, its mirrored diamonds demanding intense focus. The transformation rune accepted the dragon's blood with another magical surge. Finally, he etched Ehwaz, the movement rune taking shape stroke by stroke.

Following Hadrian's instructions, Harry sliced his thumb, hissing as blood welled up. He pressed his thumb to each rune, smearing them with blood. Silver light flared briefly before the markings vanished, leaving no trace of his work visible to the naked eye.

Harry gripped his wand tightly, pointing it at the book on his desk. "Wingardium Leviosa." 

The book rose smoothly into the air, hovering steadily at eye level. He waited, counting the minutes, expecting the familiar Ministry owl to arrive at any moment. After five minutes of tense silence, a grin spread across his face.

"Let's try something more complex," he muttered, turning to face his wardrobe. 

"Expecto Patronum!" The silver stag burst forth with unprecedented clarity and pranced around his room several times before vanishing. Still no owl.

Harry spent the next hour testing various spells. Each spell flowed from his wand with remarkable ease. His Stunning Spell, which usually produced a decent red beam, now shot forth with the intensity of a laser. 

"Something's different," Harry said, staring at his wand. "The spells... they're coming easier. Much easier. I mean, I've always been decent at practical magic, but this is something else entirely."

"I noticed the same thing when the soul piece was removed. Your magic is no longer being suppressed by Voldemort's parasitic fragment. What you're experiencing now is some of your true magical potential."

Harry lowered his wand slowly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means you no longer have an excuse," Hadrian said firmly. "You were born to be great, Harry. Voldemort's equal. The prophecy deemed it so."

Harry's head snapped up. "What prophecy?"

Before Hadrian could respond, several sharp cracks split the night air. Harry rushed to the window and spotted five masked figures in dark robes on Privet Drive, their wands drawn as they advanced towards number four.

"Who are they?" Harry's hand tightened around his wand.

"Death Eaters." Hadrian's voice was grim. "I was afraid of this."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't just remove the soul fragment but stripped away your mother's protection. It has caused the wards on the house to fail."

From downstairs, the sound of Vernon's evening news programme mingled with the clink of Petunia's teacup. Harry's heart dropped—the Dursleys were in the sitting room, directly in the Death Eaters' path.

"Dudley," Harry muttered, shoving his wand in his pocket and grabbing his invisibility cloak.

He slipped into the hallway and knocked on Dudley's door. "We need to go. Now."

"Get lost," Dudley called back.

The front door exploded inward. Aunt Petunia's scream pierced the air, followed by Uncle Vernon's bellow of rage. Harry burst into Dudley's room, yanking his startled cousin up by his arm.

"Death Eaters—wizards who'll kill you just for being related to me. Move!"

Whether it was Harry's tone or the sounds of chaos from downstairs, Dudley didn't argue. They crept through the hallway as an unfamiliar voice called out, "Find Potter! Search upstairs!"

Harry pushed Dudley into his parents' room and locked the door. His cousin's face was white with fear. "We need to get down somehow."

A masked Death Eater's spell blasted the door off its hinges. Harry's magic surged through him as he cast a Stunning Spell, more powerful than he'd ever managed. The Death Eater flew backwards, taking two others down with them.

"Don't move," Harry told Dudley. "Wingardium Leviosa!" 

He cast the spell on Dudley's jacket, which yanked upward, pulling his cousin with it. Dudley let out a strangled yelp as Harry carefully manoeuvred him through the window and down to the garden, the jacket straining against his weight.

A jet of sickly purple light shot past Harry's ear. He dove to the side, the curse hitting the wall where he'd been standing. More spells lit up the room as he scrambled to the window. Without time to think, he jumped, hitting the ground hard and rolling to absorb the impact. Pain shot through his ankle, but adrenaline kept him moving. Harry followed, dropping the last few feet as flames erupted from the ground-floor windows. The heat singed his back as he sprinted after his cousin.

They didn't stop until they reached Magnolia Crescent. Harry turned to see number four consumed by fire. Somewhere in the chaos, his aunt and uncle had either escaped or...

He couldn't think about that now. Dudley was bent over, gasping for breath beside him, and the sound of Apparition signalled more Death Eaters arriving.

"Come on," Harry grabbed Dudley's arm. "We need to keep moving."

So, what do you think? I love some time-travel fix-it stories. Should I continue this one?

Thanks for reading.