crownwithoutstones:

Harry Potter, Harry & Harry, time travel.

“Ouch,” Harry yelps as he slams his head against the sloped ceiling of the cupboard under the stairs.

He hadn’t expected it to be that close. Reaching out to steady himself on the wall, he blinks the spots from his vision and frowns. There still isn’t any room in this godforsaken cupboard. Which means either the ritual failed and having to request his relatives’ permission to do a magic ritual in their home was all for nothing—a horrifying thought—or the ritual succeeded, but deposited him wholesale body and soul into the past. Which, dammit. He reaches for the cord attached to the light bulb and tugs.

When light floods the cupboard, it reveals a wide-eyed young boy crouched on his cot, staring at the man looming over him.

“Who— who are you?” his younger self asks, clutching at his threadbare blanket. He can’t be more than five or six.

Harry has never seen himself from this angle. Man, no one was kidding around when they said his eyes were eerily bright. It’s easy to disregard the sight in a mirror, but seeing them this way is different. Looming like an ax murderer isn’t going to help anyone, so Harry kneels down next to the cot and reveals the scar usually hidden behind his fringe. “I’m you, just twenty years older.”

While his younger self reaches out to touch the scar, Harry evaluates the situation. Harry… had not been prepared to deal with this. He’d just kind of assumed that he’d be going back in time as himself, becoming this itty bitty kid in front of him. That obviously didn’t happen. Dammit, he’d had a plan. But there is no sticking around with the Dursleys as a twenty-six year old man. And, Harry thinks with a sigh, there is no leaving little Harry here, either. He’d be an asshole of the highest caliber if he left a kid in this situation; the fact that the kid is actually himself may be weird, but it’s a weird world.

“Why are you here?” his younger self asks. He’s accepted the situation rather quickly. Or, actually, knowing himself, he probably thinks it’s a dream. At this age, Harry wouldn’t believe in magic even if it knocked him ‘round the head, which it did on several occasions. The Dursleys’ adamant denial of anything magical wouldn’t crumble for another few years. Merlin, he still thinks the wind helped him up onto the school roof.

Harry shrugs. “You know how it is. Sometimes when you’re older shit happens and you decide that instead of facing that shit you’d rather go back in time than deal with the situation like a well-adjusted individual. That’s the short story, anyway.”

His younger self is silent for a long, judgmental moment. “You’re weird.”

“I know.” Harry slowly reaches out, extending his hand palm-side up. “You want to get out of here?”

Technically the same person or no, his younger self has no reason to trust this strange man in his cupboard, but little Harry takes his hand anyway.