# HARRY POTTER
## Season One, Episode One
### The Scar
The first thing Harry heard was his mother's voice.
It came to him from an impossible distance, muffled by years and death and the strange logic of dreams.
"Not Harry. Please... not Harry..."
Then came the green light.
For one terrible instant, it filled everything.
And then there was only the sound of a baby crying.
Harry opened his eyes.
Except he had not awakened.
He was standing in the rain.
Cold water ran through his hair and down the back of his neck, yet he felt no chill. Before him stood the cottage at Godric's Hollow, dark beneath a sky without stars.
Harry knew the place immediately.
He had seen it ruined. He had stood before the monument hidden inside it. He had imagined that final night more times than he cared to remember.
But the house before him could not decide what it was.
One moment, the roof had collapsed and ivy crept across shattered stone.
The next, the windows glowed warmly from within.
Then the wall was broken again.
Whole.
Broken.
Whole.
Like a memory being repeatedly rewritten.
Harry stared.
Something moved behind one of the upstairs windows.
A shadow.
Tall.
Thin.
Human.
Harry's breath caught.
"No."
The word disappeared into the rain.
He stepped toward the gate.
The crying of the baby grew louder.
His own crying.
Then another sound reached him.
A low, dry whisper.
A hiss.
Harry stopped.
He had not heard the language spoken clearly in decades, but recognition came instantly.
Parseltongue.
The realization frightened him more than the ruined house.
The voice seemed to come from the grass beside the path.
Harry looked down.
A snake, black and glistening with rain, slid slowly between the weeds. It stopped at his feet and lifted its narrow head.
Its tongue flickered.
*He remembers.*
Harry's heart hammered.
Another hiss answered from somewhere beyond the cottage.
*No.*
The snake turned its head toward the house.
*But he will.*
Harry could feel every syllable as clearly as English.
That should have been impossible.
He had not spoken Parseltongue since Voldemort's death.
For years, Harry had understood why. His ability had never truly belonged to him. It had been a consequence of the fragment of Voldemort's soul that had lived inside him since infancy. When that fragment had been destroyed, the strange connection between them had disappeared with it.
At least, that was what Harry had believed.
The snake moved closer.
Harry took an involuntary step backwards.
"I can understand you."
The creature stared at him.
For a moment, even the rain seemed to grow quieter.
Then it hissed again.
*He has found the door.*
Harry looked sharply toward the cottage.
"What door?"
The snake did not answer.
Instead, something shifted inside the darkness behind the broken doorway.
A shape.
Not quite a man.
Not quite smoke.
Harry's scar began to burn.
He raised a hand to his forehead.
The pain intensified.
It had been many years since he had felt anything like it.
And then a voice came from inside the house.
Weak.
Almost breathless.
Yet unmistakable.
"Harry Potter..."
Harry froze.
The snake lowered itself into the grass.
His scar exploded with pain.
Green light swallowed the world.
---
Harry woke with a gasp.
For several seconds he did not know where he was.
The ceiling above him was dark. Rain tapped softly against the bedroom windows. Somewhere in the house, pipes groaned with the ordinary sounds of an old building settling during the night.
Then he felt the pain.
Harry pressed his hand against his forehead.
Beside him, Ginny stirred.
"Harry?"
He did not answer.
He was still listening.
Waiting for the hiss.
Waiting for the voice.
Ginny sat up.
"Harry."
There was something in her tone now that made him turn.
Moonlight entered through the curtains, enough for Harry to see the concern in her face.
He realized his hand was still pressed against his scar.
Ginny saw it too.
Her expression changed immediately.
"Your scar?"
Harry lowered his hand.
There was blood on his fingers.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Ginny reached for her wand from the bedside table.
"Lumos."
Soft light filled the room.
Harry turned toward the mirror across from the bed.
The face that looked back at him was no longer the face of the boy who had once lived beneath the stairs at Privet Drive.
There were lines around his eyes now. Faint traces of grey had begun appearing in his dark hair. The years had altered him in ordinary ways.
But the scar had not changed.
Until tonight.
The lightning-shaped mark on his forehead was red and swollen, as though it had been made only hours earlier.
Ginny stared at it.
"That's impossible."
Harry almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because there had been a time in his life when those two words had been spoken around him rather often.
Flying cars were impossible.
Dragons were impossible.
Coming back from the dead was impossible.
Harry had learned not to take much comfort from impossibility.
"What did you see?" Ginny asked.
Harry remained silent for a moment.
"Godric's Hollow."
Ginny's face softened slightly.
"The night your parents died?"
"Yes."
"But?"
Harry looked at her.
He knew she had heard it in his voice.
"There was something different."
"What?"
"A snake."
Ginny waited.
"It spoke to me."
Her expression tightened.
"In Parseltongue?"
Harry nodded.
The room suddenly seemed colder.
Ginny knew better than most what that language meant.
She had once been controlled by a memory of Tom Riddle. She had seen what Voldemort's presence could do even when reduced to little more than ink, memory and malice.
"You haven't been able to understand Parseltongue since..."
"Since Voldemort died."
Harry looked down at his bloody fingers.
"I know."
"What did the snake say?"
Harry could still hear the words.
*He has found the door.*
He repeated them quietly.
Ginny frowned.
"What door?"
"I don't know."
Harry got out of bed and crossed to the window.
London stretched beyond the glass.
Streetlights.
Cars moving along rain-darkened roads.
The distant red lights of aircraft crossing the night sky.
The Muggle world continued as though nothing had happened.
Harry found that strangely reassuring.
Then he heard it.
A hiss.
Very faint.
Harry went completely still.
*Harry Potter.*
He turned.
The bedroom was empty except for Ginny.
She was watching him.
"What?"
Harry raised one finger.
"Listen."
Ginny listened.
There was only the rain.
Then the voice came again.
*Harry Potter.*
Harry's scar pulsed.
He stared toward the hallway.
Ginny stood and took her wand.
"What do you hear?"
Harry opened the bedroom door.
Darkness waited beyond it.
Nothing moved.
He stepped into the corridor.
The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
For a moment he remembered another corridor.
Another house.
Another lifetime.
Privet Drive.
A cupboard beneath the stairs.
A boy who had never known what he was.
Then the whisper returned.
Closer this time.
*I remember you.*
Harry's face went pale.
"Harry?"
He turned toward Ginny.
Before he could answer, his scar flared with sudden, blinding pain.
Harry cried out and collapsed to the floor, one hand pressed hard against his forehead.
At that exact moment, somewhere deep beneath London, something broke.
A tremendous crack of thunder rolled across the city—far louder than the mild storm outside had any right to produce.
The windows rattled in their frames.
Then the floor shifted.
Only slightly.
A brief tremor passed through the house, making the furniture creak and the glass on the bedside table shiver.
Ginny steadied herself against the doorframe.
For a moment, everything became still.
Harry remained on the floor, breathing hard.
Whatever had just happened, he knew the thunder had not come from the sky.
---
Far below the streets of London, beneath the Ministry of Magic, an alarm began to sound.
It had not sounded in decades.
The noise echoed through a corridor that very few Ministry employees even knew existed.
Lights ignited one after another along the stone walls, illuminating dust that had remained undisturbed for years.
At the end of the corridor stood a heavy black door covered in faded protective enchantments.
Across its surface, silver letters read:
**TEMPORAL RESEARCH CHAMBER**
**ENTRY PROHIBITED**
The last protection placed upon the door flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went dark.
Inside, the chamber had been abandoned.
Broken clocks lined the walls.
Some had stopped at midnight.
Others displayed numbers instead of hours.
A large bell jar stood empty in one corner.
Dust covered long tables filled with strange instruments whose purpose had been forgotten by almost everyone still alive.
And behind several layers of magical containment lay the remains of dozens of shattered Time-Turners.
Fragments of glass.
Bent gold.
Ancient sand.
They had been recovered from the Time Room following the battle in the Department of Mysteries and sealed away.
For years, nothing had happened.
Nothing had moved.
Until tonight.
One grain of sand rose from the bottom of a broken glass chamber.
Then another.
A shattered Time-Turner trembled.
One of its golden rings rotated half an inch.
Another fragment began to spin.
Then another.
Within seconds, every surviving piece inside the chamber was moving.
Sand climbed upward through broken glass.
Clock hands began racing backwards.
Dust lifted from tables.
Pieces of parchment fluttered from shelves although there was no wind.
Numbers began flashing across an enchanted display.
2026.
2015.
2007.
1998.
1996.
1981.
The instruments shook violently.
Then—
1991.
Everything stopped.
The chamber became completely silent.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then a thin line appeared in the air.
It looked at first like a crack in a pane of glass.
Except there was no glass.
The crack widened.
A pale light appeared beyond it.
Images flashed inside the opening.
A railway platform filled with steam.
A forest beneath a full moon.
A vast castle standing beside a black lake.
A cupboard beneath a staircase.
And finally—
A small boy.
Thin.
Messy black hair.
Round glasses.
A lightning-shaped scar.
Eleven-year-old Harry Potter.
The image disappeared.
Something dark seeped through the fracture.
At first it resembled smoke.
But smoke did not move like this.
It crawled across the stone floor with purpose.
Slowly the darkness began folding inward upon itself.
The suggestion of shoulders appeared.
A head.
An arm.
Long fingers pressed against the floor.
The thing tried to breathe.
The sound was wet and painful.
For a long moment, it did not move.
Then it lifted its head.
Its face remained hidden within the darkness.
When it spoke, the words came in Parseltongue.
*At last.*
---
Morning arrived quietly at Number Four, Privet Drive.
It was the sort of morning the residents of Privet Drive approved of.
The houses were neat.
The hedges were trimmed.
The cars were clean.
Milk bottles waited obediently beside front doors.
Nothing about the street suggested that anything strange, magical or even particularly interesting had ever happened there.
Inside Number Four, Petunia Dursley was already shouting.
"Up! Get up! Now!"
Beneath the stairs, a small boy opened his eyes.
Harry Potter was eleven years old.
He lay in darkness for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the house waking around him.
Uncle Vernon moving heavily upstairs.
Aunt Petunia preparing breakfast.
Dudley complaining about something before he had even left his bedroom.
Harry reached for his glasses.
Before he could put them on, he noticed someone standing at the end of the cupboard.
A man.
Harry froze.
Without his glasses, the figure was little more than a blur.
But there was something oddly familiar about him.
Dark hair.
Round glasses.
The shape of a scar on his forehead.
The stranger was staring at Harry.
Not angrily.
Not threateningly.
He looked frightened.
But not of Harry.
For Harry.
Harry blinked.
The man disappeared.
"Harry!"
Aunt Petunia's voice shook the cupboard door.
Harry stared at the empty space where the stranger had been.
"I'm getting up!"
He pushed his glasses onto his nose and opened the cupboard door.
Bright morning light made him squint.
For just a moment, before he closed the door behind him, he thought he heard something inside the darkness.
A faint hiss.
Almost like a snake.
Harry looked back.
Nothing.
He shut the door.
Thirty-five years later, Harry Potter suddenly remembered hearing it.
---
The coffee cup slipped from Harry's hand.
It struck the kitchen floor and shattered.
Ginny looked up immediately.
Morning light had replaced the stormy darkness of the night before, but Harry had barely slept.
He stood perfectly still beside the table.
A memory had arrived without warning.
Privet Drive.
Dudley's birthday.
His aunt shouting.
The cupboard.
And something else.
Someone standing inside it.
Harry stared into nothing.
"That's wrong."
Ginny slowly put down what she was holding.
"What is?"
Harry looked at her.
"I remember something."
"From the dream?"
"No."
He touched his forehead.
The scar remained tender.
"From when I was eleven."
Ginny studied him.
"What do you remember?"
Harry struggled to put the sensation into words.
It wasn't like remembering something forgotten.
It was more like discovering that something had always been there.
Except he knew it hadn't.
"I heard a voice."
Ginny said nothing.
"Before Hogwarts. Before I even knew what Parseltongue was."
"You've never mentioned that."
"I know."
Harry looked at her.
"Because I don't think it happened."
Ginny frowned.
"What do you mean, you don't think it happened?"
Harry shook his head.
"I remember Dudley's birthday. I remember making breakfast. I remember the cupboard."
He paused.
"But now I remember something else."
"What?"
Harry looked toward the hallway.
"I remember seeing someone."
"Who?"
"Me."
Ginny stared at him.
There was a knock at the front door.
Both of them turned.
A second knock followed.
Harry instinctively reached for his wand.
Ginny gave him a look.
"It's probably not Voldemort knocking on the front door."
Harry didn't smile.
Ginny stopped smiling too.
He walked toward the entrance and opened the door.
Ron Weasley stood outside.
He was older now.
Broader than he had been during their Hogwarts years, with lines around his eyes and traces of age beginning to appear in his red hair.
But the expression was unmistakably Ron.
He held a black Ministry evidence case underneath one arm.
Ron looked at Harry.
Then at his forehead.
His expression changed.
"Bloody hell."
Harry instinctively touched the scar.
Ron stepped inside.
"I was going to complain about being sent across London before breakfast," he said, closing the door behind him, "but apparently you've decided to make things interesting again."
Ginny appeared from the kitchen.
"What happened?"
Ron looked at her and then at Harry.
His humour disappeared.
"Something at the Ministry."
Harry's eyes dropped toward the case.
Ron carried it into the kitchen and placed it carefully upon the table.
He released two Ministry seals.
The locks opened.
Inside lay a twisted piece of gold and broken glass.
Harry recognized it immediately.
"A Time-Turner."
"Part of one," Ron said.
Harry leaned closer.
Inside the fractured glass, several grains of sand were moving upward.
Ginny noticed them too.
"They're going backwards."
Ron nodded.
"Every surviving fragment recovered from the Time Room started doing this last night."
Harry looked up.
"When?"
Ron hesitated.
"Two seventeen."
Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance.
Ron noticed.
"That means something, doesn't it?"
"That's when I woke up," Harry said.
Ron looked toward Harry's scar.
"Oh, brilliant."
Harry frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing. I was hoping you'd say three o'clock."
Despite himself, Harry almost smiled.
Almost.
He looked back at the fragment.
"Where are they going?"
Ron pulled a folded Ministry report from inside his coat.
"That's the strange part."
He unfolded it.
"The readings kept moving backwards. Every clock. Every remaining fragment. Every temporal instrument in the chamber."
"And?"
"They all stopped."
Harry already felt an answer forming somewhere inside him.
"When?"
Ron looked directly at him.
"1991."
Harry went very still.
Ron lowered the report.
"How did you know?"
Harry didn't answer.
A faint noise came from inside the evidence case.
A hiss.
Harry's eyes widened.
Ron noticed immediately.
"What?"
Harry leaned closer.
The grains of sand continued to climb.
Then the whisper came again.
*Harry Potter.*
Harry stepped backwards.
Ron immediately drew his wand.
Ginny did the same.
"What happened?" Ron demanded.
Harry looked from one to the other.
"You didn't hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Ginny shook her head.
The voice came again.
Clearer.
Closer.
*I remember you.*
Harry stared at the broken Time-Turner.
"It's Parseltongue."
Ron slowly lowered his wand.
For once, no joke followed.
"You can't speak Parseltongue anymore."
Harry continued staring at the fragment.
His scar began to burn.
"Apparently," Harry said quietly, "nobody told Parseltongue that."
---
Thirty-five years earlier, an eleven-year-old Harry Potter stood alone in the kitchen at Number Four, Privet Drive.
His aunt and uncle were arguing in the next room.
Dudley was complaining about his birthday presents.
Harry was supposed to be watching the bacon.
Instead, he had turned toward the empty hallway.
Something had whispered his name.
A low hiss.
Strange.
Unfamiliar.
And yet somehow directed at him.
"Hello?"
Nothing answered.
Harry stared into the hallway.
Then the sound returned.
*Harry Potter.*
Young Harry did not understand the words.
Not yet.
But thirty-five years later, standing over a broken Time-Turner in his kitchen, the older Harry understood every syllable.
His scar burned.
Young Harry instinctively raised a hand to his own forehead.
In 2026, Harry did exactly the same.
Two men.
One boy.
One scar.
Thirty-five years apart.
Then another voice passed through the fracture.
Deeper than the others.
Weak.
Damaged.
But slowly growing stronger.
*We are connected again.*