Houses of Glass

A/N: This is my first story, so please do not murder me so easily with your painful criticism. I accept flames, I mean, it's good to improve, but please, if all you will say is I HATE DIZ! or EH MAI GOD! SERIUZLY? WhAtZ WrOngg Wid Ya?, refrain from commenting, I don't want you to waste your time. Thank you to those who want to read this! And yes, this is another "What If" story.

Short Summary: What if Harry really died? What if Fate threw him back somewhere in the past to change the course of events? What if, Harry was thrown back into his younger self, this time with his mum and dad present, a title gone, and the world's fate belonging to someone else? Tom Riddle is still Voldemort, and vice versa, but love sounds in everyone. Fate made no exceptions.

PROLOGUE

Excerpts from 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows' by J.K. Rowling, pages 706 and 707

He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was making noises. It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, it's skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath.

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it.

His movements were set to comfort the thing under the bench, but it repulsed him to the point that he was trembling in some sort of fear. His hands were shaking, and he was unable to go any further. The small space between his fingers and that of the fetal creature never closed.

"Whatever you do, you cannot help."

He spun around. A lady stood in the distance watching him, her mantle swaying slightly. She looked windswept, but Harry felt nothing but the damp succor of the air. She was walking towards him, shoulders bent and a permanent crease on her forehead.

"You should not be here, Harry Potter." She said once she had reached Harry, her eyes focused on what was left of Harry's fading scar. One of her hands, a thin branch of an arm weathered by age, rose to touch it, stopping only a when it brushed his cheek. She looked hesitant.

"Death does not take visitors. He will not be happy to see you in his corridors again."

She looked him in the eyes, refusing his memory to forget her face. Harry found nothing in her to deem attractive. And he was reminded for a second time that this face had once been alive, had once been in a memory.

"Merope Gaunt." Harry said to no one in particular, recalling her name from a bowl of memories. She hissed as if burnt from the very sound of her name.

"Do not say my name, boy. I do not wish to be reminded of its foul and short existence." She all but spat out. Harry winced at the mention of boy.

"But you're dead," said Harry. 'Then… I'm dead too?'

"We do not have the time to speak of what we already know." Her expression softened. "Let us walk, time is of the essence."

Stunned, Harry followed as Merope strode away from the flayed child. He cast one lingering glance at the thing before he left, praying fervently for the soul of the carcass.

"I have been watching you, Harry Potter. My son's irrelevant obsession with you intrigues me." Her voice resonated the almost empty area, and Harry realized the hallway of the pristine train station was endless.

She stopped and turned toward the young man. "You remind me of him."

Harry bit on the soft pad of his lip, "I've been told."

"Wizarding Britain is awaiting for you return." Merope said, "Would you mind my keeping of you for a few minutes?"

"I'm not sure if Britain would be happy about that." He remembered the faces of all those people he had left behind, before he had died.

"Come, I have someone you would love to meet." She offered her palm, and somehow, it looked like it had more life. Harry looked up to see her smiling, the first since they had met.

Looking back one more time, Harry's eyes followed the small trail that led to the frail thing under the bench. Looking firmly into her eyes, he grabbed her hand.

A soft thumb squeezed his in reassurance.