Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Thanks once again goes to silentclock.

Let me know what you think.

Chapter One

Harry was cold. It was the first thought that came to his mind. His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open. A bright light shone directly in his eyes, forcing him to squint at the vague shape looming over him. He tried to sit up, only for his head to start spinning, and two hands were immediately on his shoulders, steadying him.

"A few too many beers last night, was it, lad?" The man chuckled jovially. "We've all been there, let me tell you."

Harry tried to speak, if only to ask what the hell was going on, but only a mumble passed his dry lips. He opened his mouth a few times, the disgusting taste of his own saliva making him gag. He wondered just what he'd managed to get himself into, and when he tried to remember, he found he had no answer.

Harry's eyes finally adjusted to the light and his situation immediately became clear. He was completely naked on the doorstep of a Muggle home. He must have been drinking heavily. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. The man who had woken him stood up and Harry studied him for a moment. He was old, with a grey moustache and kind hazel eyes. He was holding out a hand, which Harry took, and the man helped him to his feet.

"What happened?" Harry asked quickly, trying his hardest to keep calm. "Where am I?"

"You're currently on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive," the man replied, his amusement shining in his eyes.

Harry had never heard of the address before. The morning sun was peeking over the chimneys of a row of houses, which all looked like carbon copies of each other, all dull and generic. He was sure he'd never been here before.

"Your stag party last night, was it?" The man looked at him knowingly. "The same thing happened to me on my last night of freedom."

"A bit of a crazy night," Harry agreed, nodding his head in an exaggerating manner. The man seemed to be making up his own story about what happened, so Harry simply went along with it. He didn't know what else to do.

"Ah, I thought so," the man said, his eyes flickering to Harry's naked body.

Harry grinned a bit weakly, quickly covering up the last of his dignity the best he could. His eyes darted around the street; he didn't fancy the whole neighbourhood getting an eyeful if he could help it.

The man pulled on the strap of his red bag, which overflowed with letters. He was a postman, Harry knew. He'd seen them delivering mail around the square in Grimmauld Place.

The postman smiled toothily. "Never managed to make it to the other side of the door last night, huh?"

Harry swallowed the vile taste in his mouth. "My keys are with my clothes and seeing as I have no idea where my clothes are…"

The postman accepted the story without question. "Maybe you could help me out, then," he said, as if he wasn't speaking to a naked young man on the doorstep. His eyebrows furrowed. "I have this letter, you see. It's been puzzling me all morning. I don't know if it's a joke or not."

Harry rubbed the crust from his eyes and wondered what could possibly be so puzzling about a letter. "What seems to be the problem?"

The man pulled out a letter from his navy overcoat and waved it in Harry's face. "This is the little blighter. Just take a look at it."

The letter was covered in stamps, the only part left clear a small space on the front, where tiny letters made up the name and address. Harry stared at the family name. He was sure he recognized the name Dursley from somewhere. It was lingering in the back of his mind somewhere, just out of reach.

"I'll just let you go on inside, son," the postman said. "I'm behind schedule as it is. Good luck with the wedding!"

Harry watched the old man leave, before he turned back to the letter in his hand. He was completely baffled by the entire morning. It was certainly one of the oddest he'd had in a while.

A fit of giggles broke his thought process. He looked up at the sound and saw a girl in her late teens laughing into her hand.

"A bit cold this morning?"

Harry quickly covered himself again, scowling harshly at the girl. She walked away, sniggering to herself. Harry felt highly insulted, but by the time he'd thought up a worthy comeback she was too far away.

Taking another look around, Harry couldn't spot any of his belongings. His clothes were nowhere to be found, but most troubling of all was his wand. It was nowhere in sight. He felt even more naked without it, somehow. It must have been stolen from him, because there was simply no way he'd ever be so stupid and leave it anywhere.

The door of Number Four opened. Harry dashed to the side and dived into the overgrown rosebush underneath the window, wincing as sharp thorns dug into his exposed skin. His eyes watering heavily, Harry held his breath and listened. The front door closed with a click. The sound of at least two people walking across the tarmac gave way to the jangling of keys, and then three doors shut with force. Then the low rumble of an engine started and the car pulled away.

Harry waited a few minutes to make sure he wouldn't be found, before he crawled out from the bush, grimacing heavily as he stood up. His body was covered in little nicks and dirt, with small droplets of blood dripping all over him.

There was something strange going on with the house, Harry was sure of it. Some oddity surrounded the place. There had to be a reason he'd woken up on the doorstep, and he was determined to work it out. He peered in through the window and found no one inside the living room. He listened carefully for any signs of life, but the house stayed silent.

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. If he had his wand, he'd have no qualms about breaking in. The neighbourhood was starting to wake up, forcing Harry to make up his mind before he was seen by anyone else.

It was too risky to do it without a wand. Harry memorised his location, before he Disapparated away in a blur of magic. He made sure to land on the only patch of grass in the backyard of Number Twelve, but suddenly found blades of grass up to his chest.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed, immediately wading his way through the thick foliage. He could only think that Sirius had charmed the grass to grow, but he didn't have a single clue why he would do so.

Harry reached the back door and pushed it open, stopping in his tracks immediately. A spider's web, at least three metres wide, stretched from the pantry's ceiling to the wall. A thick layer of grime stuck to his bare feet, oozing between his toes.

"Sirius?" Harry called, keeping his voice as normal as he could. His skin was tingling wildly. "Padfoot! If this is another prank, I swear to Merlin-"

A loud pop cut him off mid-speech, and in front of Harry stood the dirtiest elf he'd ever seen. His ears were filled with thick tufts of white, stringy hair, and his bloodshot eyes glared menacingly in the dark.

Harry didn't waste a second in Disapparating away as fast as he could. House-elves were notoriously deviant creatures. It could have been ordered to kill Harry's whole family, or to spy on them, or even to dose them with Felix Felicis. Harry simply didn't want to hang around and find out.

The charms placed over Harry's childhood home washed over him as he Apparated to Godric's Hollow, instantly alerting him that something wasn't quite right. He'd become so used to them that he never usually noticed their presence anymore. The only reason he'd picked up on something being wrong was because the charms felt so weak. Not as though they'd been badly cast, but more like they'd degraded over time, which was a ridiculous idea.

Harry landed in his bedroom and simply stared. The lilac curtains were pulled back and hung limply, which allowed the morning sun to shine on a cream, dust-filled carpet. This room wasn't the bedroom Harry had grown up in. He'd certainly never had flowery patterns on his bedspread.

His nerves were on a knife edge and he used his average Occlumency in an attempt to keep his rising fear at bay. It didn't work as well as he'd hoped.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Harry backed out of the room. The house had four bedrooms, but only three were ever used. One was the Master Bedroom, which was his father's. One was for guests, and the last room was where his mum, Lily Potter, had been murdered.

Harry entered his dad's room. The room looked like he remembered, but the musky odour was new, and the bed looked like it hadn't been slept in for years.

"Dad! You here?" He didn't expect to receive a reply, but it still shook him when there was no answer. He opened the wardrobe and took out a generic black robe, a pair of black trousers, a simple shirt and a pair of boots. He was sure his dad wouldn't mind him wearing them, at least not when he explained the bizarre situation. The jeans and boots fitted perfectly, but the shirt was a little too wide across the shoulders and the robe slightly too long.

The only other bedroom Harry was interested in was the room only a few select people were allowed to enter. The room that had been his when he was a baby. With his head bowed and his hand shaking, he opened the door and ignored the creaking hinges.

"This isn't fucking happening," Harry stated in disbelief at the destruction that greeted him. A broken cot lay on its side, and a number of stuffed animals were spread across the floor. The ceiling had caved in, leaving bricks and mortar all over the room. And there, in the middle of it all was a set of black robes.

Harry had never seen the destruction Voldemort had caused the night he'd attempted to kill his family, and he couldn't shake the feeling that this was what he'd always imagined.

Harry toed the black robes warily and a wand rolled from beneath its folds. He stared at it with something akin to utter loathing. He knew the wand well. He'd seen it twirl and flick with mind-numbing skill. He'd seen it maim and kill. The wand was as white as its owner, made of yew and a single Phoenix feather. As soon as he picked it up, all doubts were gone from his mind. This wand belonged to Lord Voldemort.

"No!" Harry said sharply. He had snapped the wand straight after he'd killed its owner. He could remember it so clearly.

As much as he didn't want to use the wand, it was the only one Harry could find. He silently summoned any others in the house. One popped up from under the cot and another zoomed in through the door. Harry instantly recognised them both. The first wand belonged to his mother, and he saw the second wand every day in his father's hand.

James Potter's wand wasn't with its owner. The thought struck Harry sharply, and his mind connected the dots. There would only ever be one reason his dad wouldn't have his wand on him, and that would be if it was forcibly taken away.

Harry pocketed his parents' wands, bolted from the bedroom and tore down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He couldn't believe the scene that met him. The living room was chaotic, showing off scars from a messy fight. Dark patches of blood were sprayed across walls, which had deep gouges taken out of them. The coffee table was sliced cleanly in half, and the sofa showed signs of James's fighting style. Harry would recognize it anywhere.

His dad liked to use his skill for Transfiguration when he fought. The teeth and claw marks of deadly animals had torn the furniture to pieces. Harry had fought alongside his father before, once memorably against Voldemort. The Dark Lord had simply hexed the animals into insanity and ordered them to attack their creator.

Harry's jaw set and he breathed deeply. Whoever his dad had fought had either been highly skilled or unbelievably powerful, or both. Harry raised Voldemort's wand, the only one out of the three that was compatible. He was slightly disturbed by the thought of being more similar to Voldemort than his parents, but didn't let it get to him.

After a number of sweeps around the room, the only blood Harry found belonged to his dad. There didn't seem to be the slightest magical trace of another wizard or a witch. To completely block their presence indicated they were dangerous. Harry knew only a handful of people who could do it, but they were either dead or simply wouldn't attack his father.

Whoever had attacked had obviously worked on the whole house. Harry thought furiously and wondered if it might have been a group, although that didn't explain the complete lack of a magical trace. It had to be someone who had been in the house when his mum had been alive. They wouldn't have known what Harry's bedroom had used to look like otherwise. They were playing mind games with him, trying to force him to concentrate on things that didn't matter.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, his fury bubbling to the surface. He needed a plan of action. He spun on the spot and Apparated back to Grimmauld Place in search of Sirius. He landed at the back door, which was still open, and raised his wand. The house was far too quiet for his liking, and then the elf from before popped back into the pantry. Harry wasted no time at all and quickly sent a Stunning Spell at the creature. It took the red beam of light to its tiny chest and crumpled to the floor.

Harry's earlier thoughts of house-elves flashed across his mind. Maybe this elf belonged to the person who had kidnapped his dad, which also meant Sirius was in trouble. Harry raced into the kitchen, completely ignoring the disarray throughout the manor. It looked to be in a state of disrepair, but Harry wasn't fooled. It was simply more tricks being played on him, ones that he refused to fall for.

Sirius wasn't in the house. Harry had to admit the amount of magic that had gone in to creating the entire illusion was mind-boggling. He couldn't find any flaw that would make him see the real house, the one he lived in half the time.

Harry stormed out of the front door and sat down heavily on the top stair. His father and Sirius were gone. He needed to think, to come up with a plan. His family only really consisted of the four of them – James, Sirius, Remus, and himself. Two of them were gone, which meant it was likely Remus wouldn't be home either. Harry made a mental list, and the first order on his agenda was to check on the werewolf. If he was home, they'd work together.

Harry pulled out the letter the postman had given him barely half an hour ago, and his head was suddenly filled with all sorts of scenarios. He thought maybe he'd been kidnapped, Obliviated, and dropped off on a random Muggle street. It was a possibility.

The envelope was ripped open a second later, and Harry pulled out a piece of purple writing paper.

Dear Mr and Mrs Dursley,

We have never been introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from Harry about my son Ron.

As Harry might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place next Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match, as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn't hosted the Cup for thirty years and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have Harry to stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see him safely onto the train back to school.

It would be best for Harry to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows where it is.

Hoping to see Harry soon,

Yours sincerely,

Molly Weasley

P.S I do hope we've put enough stamps on.

Harry had to read through it three times before he really took in what the letter said. He was beyond confused and wondered if Molly Weasley was referring to another Harry. She had to be. There was simply no reason why the woman would write to the Muggle family about him, much less to take him to a World Cup Final. The Quidditch match was just another reason for his confusion.

The Quidditch World Cup Final had been held in the summer before Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, which was just under a decade ago, not thirty years ago. On top of that, the World Cup had been last year, in Spain.

Making up his mind, Harry charmed himself invisible and Apparated back to the Dursley household.

The car had yet to return, so with a quick Unlocking Charm on the front door, Harry immediately slipped inside the house. He held his breath, slowly taking in the hallway. A few pictures hung on the wall, all of a family of three. A large man with a thick moustache, a son who was rapidly becoming as large as his father as he aged, and a bony-faced woman.

Harry took a quick look around downstairs, finding nothing of interest, before he made his way upstairs. It took him only a glance at the closed doors to decide which room to inspect first. He opened the door with the cat flap and locks and immediately knew the bedroom belonged to a wizard.

A large wooden trunk stood open at the bottom of the bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes and assorted spellbooks. Looking further around the small bedroom, he found an empty owl cage on the desk, which was also littered with rolls of parchment. On the floor beside the bed a book lay open. The Chudley Cannons were flying in and out of sight, passing a Quaffle between them.

Harry picked up one of the letters on the desk. It was addressed to Ron, who Harry knew well from their time at Hogwarts. It was signed by someone named Harry.

After some more searching, Harry pulled out a photo album from the trunk. He flipped it open and nearly dropped it when he saw the first few pictures. They were all of his mum and dad, ranging from their time at Hogwarts to their wedding.

"This just keeps getting weirder," Harry murmured, closing the album with a snap.

Further digging inside the trunk revealed a number of objects that all belonged to Harry. There was his invisibility cloak that his father had given him on his eleventh birthday, the Marauders Map that Fred and George had found in Filch's office, a Gringotts key, and then there was his wand. He was sure it was his wand. As soon as he picked it up he knew. Voldemort's wand and his own seemed to sing in his hands, filling him with a rush of euphoria that made him stagger to the bed.

It was only then Harry noticed the calendar hanging on the wall, with days marked off. According to the date, it was nineteen ninety-four. He stared at it for a while, unsure what the message was supposed to convey. He had no idea what he'd done ten years ago to the date. He thought back to that time, and the only thing of note that came to mind was the Quidditch World Cup.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had attacked in the middle of the night, while the partying was still going strong. It was the night the world learned of Voldemort's return.

Was there a Death Eater with a grudge? Perhaps someone had broken out or been released from Azkaban recently.

Harry made another mental note to check the Daily Prophet and other media outlets for any news. If that failed, he'd have to do some digging and find out himself.

The doors to a car slammed shut, and Harry was immediately at the window, peering out at the family. The large man waddled to the front door, while his son and wife trailed behind him. They looked nothing like Death Eaters to Harry. He didn't know a single one of Voldemort's followers who could convincingly pull off being a Muggle, but he couldn't discount the idea straight out of hand.

Tip-toeing carefully out of the small bedroom, Harry waited at the top of the stairs and strained his ears. He could only hear bouts of inane conversation. He needed to hear what they were saying more clearly. For all he knew, they were using a charm to block out their real conversation.

Using a standard Hover Charm, Harry floated himself downstairs and peered into the living room. The obese son was sprawled out over the groaning sofa, a remote in his hand, his beady eyes fixed to the television.

The idea that the boy was a Death Eater was a bit far-fetched in Harry's eyes. He backed out of the room and looked through the gap in the door blocking sight of the kitchen. He tried to sense a charm in place, but found something extraordinary: a blood enchantment.

His eyebrows raised, Harry focused in on the magic, squinting as though the enchantment would reveal itself to him. It didn't, and he honestly didn't have a clue what to make of it.

"Have you seen the boy this morning, Pet?"

"No," the woman's snobby voice replied. "Shall I get him to prepare dinner?"

The man grumbled under his breath for a few seconds before he spoke again. "I'll get him soon."

So there was someone else living in the house, Harry mused. He hadn't seen the boy, as he'd been referred to. Was it that Harry, the same one who'd signed his name on the letter to Ron?

Homenum Revelio, Harry cast silently. It showed only three people inside the house, excluding himself.

"Vernon!" The woman's voice sent a shiver through Harry.

He heard a chair scape against tiles and the man grumbled again. "Bloody owls in my house. I've warned the boy, time and time again!"

"Well, go on," the woman said, sounding almost afraid. "Take it."

An envelope was ripped open and the man cleared his throat. "Dear Mr Potter, we are sorry to inform you…" The man chortled. "The boy's only gone and got himself expelled from there, Petunia!"

"No…" Petunia said breathlessly. "Does it say why?"

"He used his thingy, Pet," the man said, sounding both angry and delighted at the same time. "They say they're going to snap it in half!"

Harry felt a severe headache coming on. A letter from the Ministry of Magic had just been sent to him, telling him he was expelled.

No, Harry said to himself. It had to be someone else called Potter. It wasn't as though the name was unusual after all. Most likely a Muggleborn, he assured himself.

Harry jumped a foot in the air as the doorbell rang twice. Petunia trotted out of the kitchen and he backed himself up against the wall as she passed him.

"Good afternoon, Petunia. I trust you have been well?"

Harry's jaw dropped at the sight of his former Headmaster.

"You!" Petunia hissed, pointing a thin finger in his direction.

"Yes, me," Dumbledore said, peering over the top of Petunia's head and straight at Harry. His eyes widened ever so slightly behind his half-moon glasses. Harry's heart did a flip. "Might I suggest you invite me inside?

"Come on, then," Petunia huffed, her lips set in a straight line. "This is about the letter, isn't it?"

Dumbledore was staring quizzically at Harry, as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. "Indeed, Petunia. Could I possibly speak with Harry?"

Harry got the feeling it was only posed as a question out of politeness, and directed at him more than Petunia.

"He's upstairs," Petunia said, already halfway back to the kitchen. With her back turned, she said, "Be quick about it!"

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. He gazed at Harry meaningfully, before he started to walk up the stairs.

Harry stared after him for a moment, completely bewildered. There was simply no two ways about it. He needed answers and Dumbledore could possibly provide them.