Rewound (Drarry)

The Tedium of Time-Travel

When Harry blinked open his eyes to sunlight streaming through the gaps in his half-shut blinds, he was overcome with a unique sense of contentment. The sort of peace that is short-lived, soon to be disturbed by a rather unpleasant and shocking realisation, the 'calm before the storm' so to speak.

He let the smells and sounds of the place wash over his senses, it was so familiar, it felt as if he was lying in the grave of some part of his life which had long since died, waiting in the bones of memory from a place he no longer cared about.

He was in his room.

His room. Not his room at Grimmauld Place, or his dormitory at Hogwarts, Ron's room or the Horcux tent or any other place he'd called home for a time. No. He was in his room at the Dursley's. The very same room he'd grown up in- save for his time spent under the stairs- the once dreaded place he'd return to each summer after Hogwarts.

What an odd place for him to be.

As he stared at the ceiling, the events of the past hour began to unfurl inside his head. He had been fighting at Hogwarts; in the battle of Hogwarts. Neville had killed the snake, the last Horcrux. Snape was dead. Remus was dead. Tonks and Fred and Lavender were dead. He was dead, for a time. Most importantly though, Voldemort was dead.

And suddenly, the calm was broken.

Harry sat up straight. The last thing he could recall was Voldemort dying before him, Elder Wand in hand, victorious in the grounds of Hogwarts.

So why was he here?

Did he die? Had he been wrong, and Voldemort's spell had hit him in the end? Why did it take him here instead of King's Cross like last time?

Or was he not dead?

Was he dreaming? Did he suddenly fall into a coma as he killed his nemesis? Perhaps Voldemort had found some unknown anti-killing curse to put on himself that even Dumbledore couldn't have warned him of, maybe his spell hadn't worked at all.

So where was he? Was this actually the Dursley's?

Harry looked around, the whole scene felt achingly familiar- he was consumed with a profound sense of Dejavú unlike any he'd felt before, it felt as if he'd lived this exact moment once previously. Except, of course, that couldn't be possible could it?

Time travel was most definitely real, but it certainly did not work like this, one could not return to one's past body with all their thoughts and feelings from the future. Harry was sure of that. Or was he? He was beginning to question everything he thought he knew about magic, although he'd had vivid dreams before, even prophetic ones, this experience was far too realistic to be a dream.

Despite this, Harry wanted to check. He stuck out one hand, fumbling around on his bedside for his glasses, somehow knowing they were there. He pressed them onto his face and stood from the bed, hoping to gather at least some information about where, what, or when he was.

He looked about the room, his trunk and broomstick lay at the foot of his bed. His school things were strewn about his desk in a mess of books and quills and other various objects, Hedwig's empty cage occupying the large space next to them. Next to his bed, lying open on the floor was a book, pictures of players in orange uniforms zoomed about the pages.

Harry stared in awe, it was just as it had been when he'd stayed here before Voldemort rose to power again. The thought sent a sudden pang of sadness through him, he had been so innocent then, so unaware of the horrors that would soon come.

He walked over to his desk, lifting a letter from the pile of parchment and ink.

Harry,

You're fourteen! I can't believe you're already so old. I wish I had been there to see you become who you are today.
Buckbeak is doing well- or 'Witherwings' as he is now known, I am currently in Wales and it's nice here, I've attached a cake for you- courtesy of Honeydukes (I'm sure they won't miss it), Happy Birthday, hope you're alright.