Sweet Sixteen Again
Chapter one: Attack
The dew shimmered upon the grass of the yards on Number Four, Privet Drive, and its surrounding areas in the morning. The sun had risen properly now, and it created a bright light through all of the windows. Harry Potter was one of many people awake, and probably the only one outside. He was, by no means, a normal boy. It wasn't just the fact that he was a wizard, because he wasn't a normal wizard either.
He was the Boy Who Lived, a title given to him when he was just a baby. The title thoroughly annoyed him. Of course, when you never want fame, you hate when you're shoved under the spotlight. That was how Harry felt. Harry had been depressed last summer, but he wasn't as depressed as he was now. After losing his godfather, Sirius Black, in the Department of Mysteries about a month ago, the memory was still fresh and tender to him. The nightmares had decreased, but what bothered him the most was when he was awake and thinking about it.
The young wizard walked down Privet Drive, adjusting his glasses as he took his normal route to the park. He had grown some over the summer, making him as tall as Uncle Vernon, but still not as tall as Ron Weasley, one of his best friends, was. He strode in between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent, and went straight to the park, where he sat in his usual swing. He wrapped his arm around the chain and gently swung back and forth, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of birds and windchimes.
His attempt at finally being at peace within this world seemed to be working quite well.
Until his scar burst into pain. He gasped and instinctively brought his hand up to it, wincing with every pain-filled throb. Somehow he managed to open his eyes and see one thing that he thought he'd never seen anywhere near Privet Drive--Lord Voldemort.
The black cloak, the red eyes with snake-like pupils, the white face, and his pale and sickly fingers; unmistakeably Lord Voldemort.
No way. This cannot be happening. Not now.
Harry fumbled for his wand, and as he grasped his hand around it, he stumbled out of the swing and stood up straight, swaying with the pain in his scar... he could not believe this was happening....this was tons worse than dementors....tons.
"Harry Potter," the voice said, sending chills down his spine. "I've wondered when I'd be able to catch you. Don't bother screaming, the foolish Muggles can't hear or see us....my, my. You can't even stand!"
He laughed cruelly, a high-pitch, truly evil laugh.
Harry felt very strangely enclosed and claustrophobic, his eyes full of horror. Yes, he had thought of that damned prophecy all summer...but he had no idea that either his "murderer or victim" would be arriving within a few hours to go ahead and get things over and done with.
"And now, Harry, I think it is time to finish you off. You've dodged around me for way too long, way too many times. But here, there is no one to save you."
He stopped in amusement to watch Harry, who was clutching his scar with his left hand and holding his wand in the other, but his eyes were wide open and he was fully aware of what was going on. What could he do now? No one was here...no one could hear him if he screamed.
Voldemort grinned maliciously and raised his wand, "Av--"
A loud CRACK, the sound of someone Apparating, filled the otherwise silent atmosphere, and Voldemort stopped his spell, his body still poised to cast a curse as he looked straight across from himself.
Albus Dumbledore had out his wand and his eyes were blazing like a blue fire. He looked over at Harry, then back at Voldemort.
"So, Tom," he said calmly. "We meet again."
Voldemort, instead of answering, directed the Killing Curse at Dumbledore, who sidestepped it as if Voldemort had thrown a pebble at him.
"Clever of you, Dumbledore," he snarled. "Do you keep some strange tracking device on the boy, letting you know who all he meets?"
Dumbledore stopped walking and acted as if he were mildly surprised.
"Actually, Tom," he said coolly, "the tracking device is not on Harry, it's on you."
Voldemort said nothing, but he directed another curse at Dumbledore, who sidestepped it.
Dumbledore then cast his own spell, and soon things were flying between the two of them. Harry was watching in awe. He had never seen such a battle in his life. The only time he had seen these two powerful wizards battle was in the Department of Mysteries a couple months ago.
But when Voldemort's spell went off course and came toward Harry, Harry raised his wand and yelled a bunch of words in his defense. He wasn't even sure what he was yelling....he just knew he had to do something.
A bright silver light hit Voldemort, then ricocheted and hit Dumbledore. A sudden mist filled the surroundings like a blanket. Horrified and unable to see, Harry stared blankly around, panicking.
"Professor!" he bellowed. "Professor!!!"
Stumbling around blindly, he rushed forward where he thought Dumbledore had fallen and got onto his knees, fumbling around to find his Headmaster's hand.
"Professor Dumbledore, I'm so sorry, I had no idea that--" Harry looked at the hand clutched in his own. Who in the bloody hell's hand was that? It was the hand of someone his own age, smooth and unwrinkled...no, this couldn't be Albus Dumbledore's hand.
As the mist cleared, and Harry squinted down at the body on the ground, he yelped and leapt backward, hitting his head on the swingset as he did so. The man in front of him....was not even a man.... he was sixteen years old, a mere teenager, with auburn hair and a clean-shaven face.
But this teenager had on Dumbledore's robes...and was wearing Dumbledore's glasses and shoes.
His eyes as wide as saucers, he looked several feet away at the supposed Voldemort on the ground. And there, was not Voldemort, but another sixteen year old, dressed in black robes. He had black hair, with brown eyes, and horribly resembled Harry slightly.
Tom.....Riddle? Tom Marvolo Riddle?
Harry was officially panicking now as the other two teenagers stood, gathering up their wands again and about to curse each other when they did double-takes.
"What the--?" Tom began coughing.
Dumbledore took this time to look at his own body, taking off his reading glasses. He looked over at Harry, who hadn't said a word. At first he did not notice the change, but when he reached up a hand to his face, he let out a shriek--very uncharacteristic of Albus Dumbledore.
"I'm sixteen? I was wondering where all that agility came from just a second ago!"
"Professor," breathed Harry. "I'm.....I'm sorry, I didn't know..."
Tom had stopped choking and put on a disgusting face that didn't work well on him at all.
"POTTER!" he bellowed, "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
He began stomping the ground angrily, and throwing a little temper-tantrum that Harry found amusing.
"Well, obviously," he began, now beginning to think the situation was funny, "I've turned you into sixteen year olds."
Tom growled and ran toward him, tripping over his large shoes and falling to the ground. "You cannot do this to Lord Voldemort!" he shouted. "And I'm still Lord Voldemort, no matter how old I look!"
He was trying to sound intimidating, and it wasn't working at all. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at him. "Tom--"
"If you can call me Tom," interrupted Tom, "then I should be able to call you Albus."
"Fine," snapped Albus. "And since all three of us are the same age now, Harry should call me Albus too."
"That's just weird," concluded Harry. "I've never heard Albus Dumbledore snap at anyone, and I've never heard Lord Voldemort whine about little things--"
"SHUT UP!" shouted Tom. "NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR INPUT!"
"Well, well.." said Harry, grinning. "Tom's got a little problem controlling his sixteen year old emotions."
"I have no emotion," stated Tom firmly.
"Yet you just yelled-"
"Shut up, Potter."
"Might as well call me Harry, now. You were calling me that just a moment ago.."
Tom said nothing.
"Harry, Tom! If you two would stop arguing, we may be able to get somewhere. Now, seeing as Tom and I are leaders, our--followers--will be wondering where we are. They will probably not believe us when we tell them Harry Potter has accidentally cast some kind of Aging Spell on us. Well, at least Tom's followers won't. And I don't think any of us should be doing magic. I don't know if the Ministry will detect all of our magic as underage. Now, we have to go somewhere and get out of these robes...the Muggles will notice."
"Who cares what the stupid Muggles think?" snarled Tom.
No one answered.
"Where are you going to go?" Harry asked Albus, glaring at Tom.
"Well, since we cannot perform magic, and there may he a horrible chance that the people on the Knight Bus will recognize one of us, we have to stay here until we find the counterspell."
"WHAT?" roared Tom. "Stay here, with Pot--Harry's ruddy relatives?"
"Yes, that's what I said. I wish you'd calm down, there's nothing to acheive by shouting and letting the whole world know about us," said Albus.
Tom glared at him and for a moment; there was nothing but silence.
"Well," said Harry heavily, "now what?"
"We go to Number four, Privet Drive," said Albus.
"We go to Number four, Privet Drive," mocked Tom quietly.
Albus turned and shot him a dangerous glare.
So, the three wizards walked across the park quite sluggishly, Tom and Albus' robes sagging off of them and dragging the ground. The three soon reached the street and were trudging down it reluctantly. From what Albus had seen of Harry's aunt and uncle, they were people not easy to get along with. Personally, he had hoped he'd never have to meet them. Now he'd have to live with them. Until he found out exactly what was cast on Tom and himself.
He knew that no one in the world could imagine that at this very moment, Lord Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, and Harry Potter were walking down the same street, and not trying to kill each other.
Not yet, anyway.