Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. And now, to imitate Snape, if you have to make me say it, you truly are a batch of dunderheads.

A Deal with Fate

Harry James Potter had won the war.

He had lost everyone he cared about.

That had been one hundred years ago, but he still remembered his decision that day: He'd find a way to do over and make it better this time. No matter what the cost.

He had spent the rest of his life learning, languages, magic, runes, arithmancy, potions, he was hailed as a universal genius, all because in his zeal for his quest he didn't care about anything but learning any more. He had learnt proper duelling, but his focus was more on the mind than on the body.

By now, his formerly black hair was as white as snow. In his nineties, it still had consisted mainly of grey.

He was the most famous researcher in the entire world. His inventions – the Lycanthropic Cure and the Parselmouth Potion in the realm of cauldron brewing, the Protective Circle and the Body Wards in Warding and Runes, the Three Theorems of Telling the Untold in Numerology and his break-through in Spell Creation that allowed one to break up any spell in pure arithmantic formulas, which he had promptly used to dissect most of the Dark Arts, finding, surprisingly enough, that most of them did not have any effect on the soul – and his re-discoveries of things like the Inheritance Potion and at least twenty ancient, thought to be lost forever, manuscripts, had made him more than famous. He was a legend, now.

He had studied anything and everything he came across.

He sometimes wondered whether Hermione would have done better or worse than him if she had survived, or how he would have done in school had he applied his full brain capacity. He'd found a love for Potions and Runes and well, everything learnable he never knew he had in him.

He still hadn't found a way to go back. Everything else had been mainly side-distractions, there for him to take his mind of the problem he still couldn't solve, although some of it would undoubtedly prove useful in the past.

He was delving into something else right now. He had just found hints of it in his books, subtle clues that had taken forever to decipher.

There was a way to summon entities like Time and Fate.

He was just working on the how right now. He would leave his notes, of course, in several copies in different levels of vagueness, just in case a deal with Fate included having to exterminate more detailed descriptions, so that anyone coming after him would have it easier.

It was time to face Fate.

Again, but this time on his terms.

He had prepared the summoning ritual meticulously, he had double-checked every single thing... he was ready, now.

All that was required now was some blood.

It was strange. Magic seemed to have an obsession with blood. Most of the more powerful rituals required it in some form.

The room filled with what appeared to be white smoke.

It was everywhere, clouding Harry's view.

You summoned me.

"I did."

What for?

"A second chance. I want to go back in time."

I'm sorry... that's impossible.

"Pardon?"

You can't go back in your own universe. The past has already happened, it is unchangeable if you want to preserve the present. In this case, if say, you'd go back, with all your memories, and did everything for the younger you, it wouldn't have any incentive to become you and learn how to do all of this himself. In which case, you'd probably get a stroke to preserve the timeline, or that universe would collapse into itself.

So all those years of preparations... Wasted.

I can offer you another deal, though.

"Which kind of deal?"

You can't go back in your own universe. Doesn't mean you can't go to an alternate one. There might be one that needs a little help.

"How does that alternate universe look?"

Your counterpart, for a start, isn't the Boy Who Lived. This position is held by one Neville Longbottom there. Your counterpart still has parents. Oh, and it hasn't advanced beyond second year, yet.

"Is Neville a horcrux, then?"

That's the beauty of it. He isn't. Which of course means, that, well, he can't go into the Chamber.

"And I could go there. I will go there. What's the catch?"

Well, you couldn't waltz in and declare yourself a Harry Potter from another universe, of course. And of course, there's the matter of payment.

"What payment?"

You wouldn't remember any personal details. Like your name, or your story of life, or your parents, or your friends. You'd keep all of your abilities, though. Every single thing you can do.

"No more nightmares, then."

Not quite. Instead of memories, you would get a variant of the Seer gift. Premonition. Oh, and you'll be allowed to chose your name and parentage.

"Let me guess. So that an Inheritance Potion won't show my actual parents."

Exactly. May I make a suggestion for the parentage?

"If you want to."

Your mother had a squib cousin, by name of Rose Evans. She'd make a good mother, as she is dead in that universe, anyway. In both of them, actually. Died when either you was just six months old.

"And for a father?"

In that universe, there was a man named Marvolo Aenrichus Riddle. Son of Tom Marvolo Riddle and a Beatrice Potter, the latter died in an accident when she was five in your world. The two of them were lovers.

"No way in hell."

Come on.

"Did you listen to me?"

It would make the whole thing a lot better.

"No."

If I would make it a condition of you crossing?

"I guess... okay. If you absolutely insist."

Your name?

"Last name... well, Evans, I guess."

Technically, Evans-Riddle.

"Let's just act as if I don't know this at that point in time."

Okay. So, Evans...

"Wasn't Aenrichus the Latin form of Henry? So, Aenrichus Marvolo Evans, or Henry Marvolo Evans, after my father, his father's middle name, and his mother's father."

Perfect.

"Henry Marvolo Evans. When do I start?"

Now, of course.

And suddenly, Harry – or Henry, now – was gone, he felt himself fall, and at the same time was torn in every possible direction, then squeezed together into an infinitely small point, until he lost consciousness.

His last thought was: Why again did I agree to this? The answer was simple: Because he'd lived the last hundred years for this opportunity.

When the Unspeakable with the codename Ptolemy entered the Room of Time, he hadn't expected to find a twelve-year-old boy there, a boy with raven-black hair lying halfway on some of the most dangerous artefacts in the entire world.

Before he could think, he'd torn the boy away from them.

His eyes fluttered open. Vibrant green eyes, of a like he'd nearly never seen before.

"Where am I?"

The boy didn't know?

"Who are you?"

"My name is Henry."

"Henry."

"Henry."

"Just Henry?"

"Uh... Henry Evans, sir."

Ptolemy seriously considered just dosing the boy with Veritaserum. In the end, he decided to first drag him into another room. Lying on time artefacts could do some pretty mean things to a child, well, anyone, actually.

He informed Croaker, then put three drops into a glass of water.

"Drink this."

The boy sniffed.

"Veritaserum."

"How do you know this?"

"No change in colour or odour, and besides, it would be the most likely thing to give to anyone in a place where he isn't expected. From your reaction, I'm pretty sure I wasn't expected to be where I was."

Ptolemy could hear his boss coming in, under an invisibility cloak. The interrogation could begin.

"You're pretty good, kid. Now, do me a favour and take a drink."

Wordlessly, the boy drowned the potion.

"What is your full name?"

"Aenrichus Marvolo Evans, as far as I know."

"Nicknames?"

"Henry."

"How did you come to be here?"

"You dragged me here."

Exact words, Ptolemy, exact words.

"I mean, how did you come to be in the room I found you in?"

"I don't know."

"Where do you live? Who are your guardians?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember anything that is part of my personal history except for my name and my date of birth. Oh, and a bit of my name's history."

Such a case. Ptolemy had heard of them, but never quite believed it.

"When were you born, then?"

"31st July 1980."

"Your name's history?"

"Marvolo was my father's name and his father's second name, my father's second name was Aenrichus, after his maternal grandfather. My mother's last name was Evans."

"Nothing else?"

"Knowledge. Like, I know how to swim, and how to write, and how to read, and..."

"That's enough. Croaker, what do you say?"

"I'd say we're gonna help a boy in need. Give him the antidote, Ptolemy."

A few drops of antidote later, Henry was in a normal state again.

"Was this really necessary?"

"Lesson Number One, kid: You never know what an enemy could do."

An hour later, they had administered the Talent Determiner Potion, and Croaker was quite impressed.

The boy was a Parselmouth, seldom enough, and had the rare gift of Premonition. The difference between Premonition and Seeing was mainly one of whether prophecies were given, and of reach and exactness. Someone with Premonition might be able to just look a moment into the future at times of stress, and they might get rather accurate clues on trustworthiness of others. A Seer gave prophecies and... well, not much else.

Of course, there were different flavours of Premonition, some useful, some not quite so. Croaker had known a Premonitor with the "gift" of always knowing what surprise gift he was going to be given.

The man's joy in Christmas had been utterly destroyed, because no gift could ever surprise him.

Another with that gift could always determine whether or not someone wore socks and if yes, how they looked, even without seeing them. Not exactly the most useful gift.

A Premonitress Croaker had met once, however, had sometimes gotten a clue on things that she shouldn't have known about that were actually useful. She'd found quite a lot of tombs in Egypt that had been hidden so well that only luck or this kind of gift could ever uncover them.

He sincerely hoped Henry's gift belonged to the latter kind.

While he tested Henry on magical theory, he decided that the Unspeakable Force definitely needed a mascot. A mascot named Henry Marvolo Evans. The dubious honour of handling his paperwork was given to the Unspeakable Ptolemy. In Croaker's opinion, they were a pretty good match. Ptolemy had found the boy, and he could show him that being a Parselmouth didn't mean you had to be an evil scumbag. After all, Ptolemy was one himself.

And so, Henry came to be basically adopted by a man named Markus Ptolemäus Hohenheimer, or Unspeakable Ptolemy.

It was the January of the year 1993.