Harry Potter-A New Future

I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon

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Chapter 4: A Past Forever Altered

Harry stood in the shadow of a deserted alley far from Diagon, leaning heavily against a crumbling brick wall. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face, though not from exhaustion. The magic had come easily—too easily, really. No, his trembling hands and the erratic rhythm of his breath were from the weight of realization.

He'd saved them.

Charlus and Dorea Potter.

His grandparents.

The names swirled in his mind, memories of stories whispered in hushed tones during long nights at the Burrow or in fleeting mentions from Remus and Sirius. They had been heroes in their own right, war veterans who had fought valiantly against Voldemort's rise.

And they had died.

He pressed his palms to his temples, trying to push away the cascade of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. They were supposed to die. They were supposed to fall in battle, outnumbered and outmatched, but not before taking down eight Death Eaters in a blaze of defiance. Their sacrifice had been part of the tapestry of his past, the foundation of the stories that shaped him.

But not anymore.

Harry had seen the terror on Dorea's face as Charlus fell, had felt the icy grip of rage and determination as he leapt into action. He hadn't thought—hadn't paused to consider the consequences. All he knew in that moment was that he couldn't let them die. Not like that.

But now, as he stood alone in the aftermath, the enormity of what he had done settled over him like a crushing weight.

The future he knew was gone.

Every thread, every moment that had led him to this point, unraveled. A timeline built on the backs of sacrifices, on the lives lost in Voldemort's war, had been severed the moment he intervened. There was no going back—not to his friends, not to the world he had fought for, bled for, and nearly died to save.

Had it even been real?

Harry clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He tried to hold onto what he could remember—Hermione's laugh, Ron's lopsided grin, Ginny's fiery determination—but the edges of those memories were already blurring, like ink bleeding on parchment.

He slid down the wall, sitting heavily on the cold ground. For a moment, he let his head fall back, staring up at the night sky. The stars were so clear, so sharp—nothing like the smog-filled nights of his own time.

"This isn't home," he muttered under his breath, the words sounding hollow even to him.

But it was, wasn't it?

This was the world he had fallen into, and no matter how much he longed to return, the path back was gone. Even if it wasn't, what would he return to? A future rewritten by his own hand? Would Hermione still exist, or Ron, or anyone he had loved?

He closed his eyes, his hands curling into the folds of the conjured robes he wore. He could still feel the crackle of raw power from the battle in Diagon Alley. He had moved like a storm, driven by instinct, wielding magic he hadn't even realized he was capable of. But for what? To save two people he'd never met but felt connected to through the fragile thread of blood and history?

They hadn't recognized him—how could they? To them, he was just a stranger, a mysterious savior who had appeared out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly. But Dorea's face… Merlin, she had looked so much like his mother.

His mother.

Harry's breath hitched. If Dorea and Charlus lived, how would that change things? Would James still meet Lily? Would he still be born? Would Voldemort's rise even happen the same way?

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to shake the spiral of questions that had no answers. He had already made his choice, and the consequences would ripple out in ways he couldn't predict.

"This is my life now," he said aloud, as if hearing the words might make them easier to accept.

His gaze dropped to his hands, still faintly glowing with residual magic. The fight had felt almost natural, as though the years of struggle and battle against Voldemort had honed him into something more than just a wizard. He wasn't a soldier anymore—he was a weapon.

And now, in this fractured timeline, he was alone.

He exhaled slowly and stood, his legs still unsteady beneath him. The first step forward was the hardest, but he took it anyway, the weight of his new reality settling firmly on his shoulders.

If the future was gone, if the life he had known was erased, then all that was left was the present.

And the present was at war.

Harry straightened his robes, his eyes hardening. He didn't know what role he would play in this timeline, but if the battle at Diagon Alley was any indication, he wasn't here to stand on the sidelines.

The future may be gone, he thought grimly, but Voldemort's still here. And I'm not done fighting.

With a crack, he Disapparated into the night.