Rewriting History

A/N: It’s a damn good thing I didn’t get too invested in this stuff; otherwise I might have been devastated from what happened in book 7.

It’s not the end of the world, and I’ll continue dabbling in my series to make things right from various angles and points in canon. But for this I pose a simple question: what if what we’re reading is simply a misinterpretation of history, or a wishful one?

It is to that end I present to you…Rewriting History…what really happened as told by the man who lived it. You’ll see what I mean.

/ - / - / - /

June 1^st, 2099

Terrence Skeeter ran through the offices of Athena Press Publications with single minded determination on his face, trying not to miss his third deadline in a row. It had been a hard time trying to get an interview with the Goblin Chieftain, but things were moving along smoothly, and he had managed to sweet talk his way into the story of the century.

If he could get it in on time.

Much to his chagrin, he rounded the corner long enough to see the paste-ups for the next day’s prophet leaving to be published. “Wait,” he screamed out loud, drawing everyone’s attention to him…save for the person who was carrying the paste-ups of course. The moment he opened a small metal door and went through it, the paper was going to be as it was.

Terrence slipped and fell in his desperation to reach the ironclad deadline for the next day, and cursed himself as he lay on the floor. He then got a wide-eyed look and jumped backwards as a small burst of flame erupted from his robes. He watched in horror as his only copy of the interview with the elusive Griphook literally went up in smoke. The goblins certainly hadn’t been lying when they told him that the interview would have to be in that day’s edition, or it wouldn’t ever be published in the first place. Time was money to them.

Terrence cursed himself aloud and kicked imaginary dust on the remaining ashes of the story that was going to make his career, before one overwhelming thought of dread filled his mind…

If he had no story…it would certainly break his career too.

Resigning himself, he trudged back to his cubicle, not even bothering to check his mail as he walked in. Sitting down at his desk, he rubbed his eyes in worry and let out a deep sigh. He looked at a mirror on the side of his desk and ruffled his hand through dirty blonde hair that had flecks of auburn in it. He certainly looked worse for wear if his blue eyes were to be believed given their current bloodshot state.

“All right there Terry?” he turned around and saw the smiling face and green eyes of his friend, his best mate since Hogwarts, Andrew Creevey, looking down on him with a sarcastic smirk cut into his gaze. Terry just groaned and turned away, placing his head down on his desk.

“Go away Andy,” he said through his arms, “I’m gonna be in for it now.”

“I’m not going to argue with you on that one mate,” Andy replied, sitting down in the other chair in the larger than normal cubicle. “Lord knows Carter isn’t going to like this one bit.” Terry groaned again and banged his head on his desk at the mention of his fat, balding, overbearing editor. He had promised Carter the story of the century, the first real interview between a member of the wizarding press and the goblin chieftain in over a century, since the conclusion of the fourth Dark War of the 20^th century. He had to bribe several goblins just to get close to the chieftain, and then bribe several more to get him to agree to the short interview with the caveat that they would determine its press time.

He had been so happy that he had decided to go out with his mates and get plastered, forgetting of course to brew a healthy dose of hangover potion. He had woken up two hours before deadline, and had worked like a madman to get his story done in time all through a blurry sense. If his Nana Rita had still been alive, she would have killed him on principle alone. This was compounded by the fact that his apparition license was currently on suspension for suspected use in a muggle shopping mall (a charge that had half a bit of truth to it, but was far overblown he told himself again) and so thusly he had to use the Knight Bus to get to the office in time.

Damn them for being five minutes early with the deadline.

“Oh by the way,” Andy said, breaking Terry out of his stupor and reminiscing, “You’ve been getting a floo call from Carter’s office all day. I told them you were out but they insisted on you going up there as soon as you got in.” Terry groaned for a third time in as many minutes.

“Great, now I’m not just in for it…I might as well be roasted.” Terry looked to Andy for some semblance of sympathy.

“Hey….who says you have to be roasted? You could just as easily be barbecued.” Terry growled and tossed a wad of parchment at Andy who just laughed. “Hey, calm down man. If anything they will probably just reprimand you again.” Andy stopped and scratched his chin, as if deep in thought before he added, “Unless Carter knows you’ve been shagging his daughter. Then that might complicate things.” Terry let out an audible gulp. He and Lavender had been seeing each other in a rather clan destine fashion for the better part of five months, but she still hadn’t told her father.

“Well, I suppose I should face the music,” he said with a feigned smirk, standing up from his desk while trying to keep a smile on his face. “I suppose it can’t be all bad.”

/ - / - / - /

Terry Skeeter slowly approached the door that held his editor’s office. Suddenly he wasn’t so optimistic, even in a feigned version, about what was about to happen to him. There were a million thoughts running through his mind, like why exactly his editor had wanted to speak with him before he blew the biggest story of his possibly soon to be ex-career.

He wrapped on the door softly, earning a gruff affirmative for him to come in. He slowly eased the door open, as if creeping through some danger filled castle. He was surprised at what he saw. There on his desk was an overweight, dark-skinned man, with light gray hair and a calm demeanor on his face, clad in muggle business attire as opposed to more traditional wizarding robes. Carter Thomas, editor of the Daily Prophet, glanced up at his employee, and offered a slight smile.

“Ah, Terrence, there you are. Come in, come in, please sit down.” Terry suppressed an audible gulp and decided that so far, this was a good thing. Carter was usually one given to wear his emotions on his sleeve, so if he was acting happy right now, there was a better chance that he was actually happy to begin with. Terry did as he was told, and Carter took a seat across from him at his cluttered desk.

“Andy said you’ve wanted to see me.” Terry swallowed, it was always best to come clean when something was broke, especially if they didn’t know about it already. Given the fact that Carter was acting the way he was, Terry had deduced that he must not know about the blown story yet.

“Yes,” Carter said, his face faltering a bit, “I just heard about what you did with the goblins.” Terry panicked in his head, but then Carter did something he never did: he smiled and shrugged it off. “Forget about it kid, stuff like that happens. Is anyone else going to get a story with the goblins? Not likely. The only one who would is the Quibbler anyway, and they’ve got nothing to gain by it. What are they going to do, knock us out of last place?” Carter laughed, a gesture returned by Terry, who offered a ho-hum, reserved laughter in response.

Carter stopped and grabbed a piece of parchment from his desk, handing the folded document to Terry. “That arrived via owl this morning from Scotland.” Terry glanced up at Carter, who motioned for him to read it. Terry pulled out a small pair of reading glasses and unfolded the parchment, carefully reading it.

To the Executive Vice-President of Athena Press Publications:

I am writing you in reference to your standing offer of publication for my memoirs. I realize this likely comes as a sudden shock to you, given my vehemence at any inquiries as to publishing said book in the past, but I have come at a time in my life when I feel it necessary to put certain truths in order and certain lies to rest.

Therefore, if the offer still stands and you are agreeable, I wish for you to send a biographer immediately to begin the process of constructing my memoirs. I request that you send one Terrence Skeeter, staff writer for the Daily Prophet, to conduct a series of interviews with me concerning my life, which is then to be put in a biography that he will write. For legal concern, I ask that all rights and royalties to the book be paid directly to Mr. Skeeter, with the before agreed upon fees paid to Athena Press Limited in advance, as determined by Gringotts Bank.

If this is an unsuitable proposal for you, then please write me back immediately.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter

Order of Merlin First Class & Headmaster of Hogwarts Emeritus

Terry’s eyes went wide as he re-read the letter a second, followed by a third time. Carter just sat behind his desk, smiling, as he explained, “You can understand that the possibility of publishing the memoirs of the Man-Who-Conquered would be a boondoggle to our sagging profit margin.”

“But W—Why me,” Terry sputtered out, finishing the letter for a fourth time, still in a state of shock. “I mean, I’m not even a real author, I just write Quidditch game reports. I’ve barely even been working here for more than six months!”

“You don’t think I want you to handle something of this magnitude, do you?” Carter asked rhetorically, squinting his eyes in a degree of annoyance. “But the letter was clear; you are to be the one to write this book. Hell, I’d go sell my own mother to a bunch of sex-starved pirates if it meant I’d get the publishing rights to this book.” He moved around a bunch of papers on his desk and tossed a small acorn to Terry. “That’s supposed to be a portkey to wherever it is that he is living at.” Carter got a wistful look on his face, as if he could see the galleons mounting in front of his eyes.

Terry considered himself lucky to still have a job at this point, but standing pat had never been one of his strong suits. The Sorting Hat had once told him he’d be great in Slytherin if it weren’t for his rather clever nature, which ultimately led him to Ravenclaw. That had never stopped him from using his inherent cunning to his advantage when the opportunity presented itself. Resituating himself to sit up more in the chair, he leaned forward towards his editor.

“What if I say no?” he said with a smirk on his face, causing Carter to silence quickly, his lips firmly pursed. “I mean, it’s not like you can get someone else to do it.” He smiled again, leaning back, “Of course, I don’t think I’d turn down an opportunity like this, assuming that I was properly motivated of course.”

Carter sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his temples. “What is it you want Skeeter?”

Terry smiled broadly, “Just a column of my own in the Prophet….and a bigger office with a pay raise.” Carter turned a rather impressive shade of purple for a dark-skinned man, but Terry persisted. “Like you said sir, profits will go through the roof if this book is a hit, and since it’s about Harry Potter, I don’t see how it couldn’t.” Carter calmed down a bit, before sighing again and nodding.

“Fine Terry, you’ll have what you want…when you deliver that book and if it’s a best-seller. Come back to me then, and we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough,” Terry replied, smiling, and ushering himself out of the office.

“Terry,” came Carter’s deep voice, causing said reporter to freeze in his tracks and turn back at his boss. “Never lay a hand on my daughter again,” he said firmly, causing Terry to shudder from the angry look in the man’s eyes. Terry may have been cunning, but bravery had most certainly never been one of his greater points.

/ - / - / - /

Terry reappeared into a gray misty day on the outskirts of a small village of Scotland. This certainly wasn’t what he was expecting as far as where the great Harry Potter lived.

There wasn’t a witch or wizard alive who didn’t know the basic story of Harry Potter. Harry who had at the age of one, slain the dark wizard known then as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (still called that by some of the older generations, even a century later). He had been proclaimed the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry had then been sent to the muggle world to live with his aunt and uncle, though tales of this time of his life were sparing at best. He returned to the magical world at the age of 11, stopped a possessed professor from capturing the Philosopher’s Stone, solved the riddles of the Chamber of Secrets, participated in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, had single handedly stopped Voldemort (as was his proper name), from capturing the Ministry upon his return (though no one believed at the time that he had in fact returned), and then, along with his great friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, had defeated Voldemort once and for all.

Of course that was just the beginning. For the next century Harry Potter would be the defender of the wizarding world, alongside his wife, companion and equal, Hermione Potter. Eventually the Potter’s settled into a peaceful existence, with both of them becoming instructors, and later Harry himself becoming headmaster at Hogwarts. Terry still remembered seeing Harry Potter for the first time, albeit from a distance, as an eleven year old child walking into the Great Hall, in awe of the great hero.

Oddly enough in all of his time he had never spoken with the headmaster, or even been sent to the headmaster’s office. He had always been on the badside of Professor Gray, his head of house during his time at Hogwarts, but had never really come into contact with either of the Potter’s. Of course Professor Potter-Granger had been his charms professor for seven years, but he had never been close with her either.

As he walked up a beaten path towards what he assumed to be the right house, he thought best about how to approach this. Though the basic story was known, details concerning all of Harry’s adventures were scarce at best. This had led to wild speculation on the part of many authors, as many “unauthorized” biographies and accounts of his tales had surfaced, some more credible than others. The Potter’s had never affirmed nor denied any of the claims in the books, and had never given their blessings to any of them. And the close knit circle of friends surrounding them, the Weasleys, Neville Longbottom and his wife Susan, even Draco Malfoy, had been surprisingly mum on the subject. Most of these accounts came as second or third hand from some of the more unsavory characters in Harry’s life, while others seemed to be on the up and up, going so far as to have interviews from Harry’s numerous children included. A small minority were complete trash, however. These, for the most part, poorly written books were scandalous at best, and downright ludicrous at worst, distorting even the most basic known facts of Harry’s life to the point at which it was laughable.

He came to a stop in a large meadow with a few trees lining the far edges of the property. He tilted his head in surprise as he saw a small, two-story cottage sitting in the middle of the field, a simple garden in front of it’s normal, off-white color. Smoke happily billowed out of the chimney on the left hand side. This certainly wasn’t the expected destination, he thought to himself. He expected Harry Potter to live in a large mansion, maybe even something akin to a castle, not something that rivaled his small London flat in terms of opulence. The whole thing had a rather picturesque look to it, complete with a picket white fence that surrounded the house.

Quietly Terry slipped through the front gate and made his way down a small cobblestone path that led to the front door. He didn’t notice the small loop of rope that was placed on the path in front of him. When he stepped in it, he screamed in shock as he was flung up by the noose and left dangling by his ankles from an oak tree in the front yard After a few moments of struggling to get loose, a task worsened by the fact that his wand had fallen out of his pocket and onto the floor, he heard a soft pop and glanced over to see a house elf standing in front of the house, glaring at him.

“Get me down from here you bloody thing!” Terry yelled, only to have the elf shake its head.

“Colby will be doing no such thing sir,” the elf snapped. He then got a wicked glint in his eyes, “Then again…” With a snap of his fingers the rope holding Terry to the tree disappeared, and Terry quickly landed onto the ground with a loud thud. The elf giggled, while Terry snarled at him from his crouched position, as he tried to dust himself off. The elf looked like no other that Terry had ever seen. He was wearing a rather intricately designed uniform, not unlike the one that a muggle butler would wear. Terry staggered to his feet, grabbing his wand from the ground as he did so and keeping it at his side.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked defensively. “I was invited here…why would you attack a guest.”

“Colby is doing as he is told,” the elf explained, taking two steps forward, “Master Harry Potter needs to be protected, and that’s what Colby be doing.” Terry was about to say something else, when he heard the creaking of a door. Both he and Colby turned to see the front door to the house open up wide.

Harry Potter looked just as Terry had remembered him from Hogwarts. He had a short gray beard that was still very neatly trimmed and never longer than a few inches from his face. His face was still a mask of emotion, giving no real indication of what was really going on underneath the façade. He was dressed in light blue robes and, surprisingly to Terry, a pair of slippers. He yawned a bit, stretching out his arms and readjusting his glasses, which covered a pair of twinkling green eyes. Above those eyes, on his brow, was his famous scar, standing out as prominently as the day which he had gotten it.

“Colby,” Harry muttered aloud, “What seems to be the trouble?”

“No trouble Master Harry Potter sir,” Colby said, turning back to Terry. “Just an intruder that Colby be sending away.” Harry squinted at Terry, before his eyes went wide.

“Colby,” he said in a chastising fashion, “This is the reporter I told you about.” Colby’s bug-eyes stuck out further from his head as he turned back to Harry, who continued, “This is Terrence Skeeter, the one who’s going to write my biography.”

“Oh…I---….” Colby sputtered back and forth, before popping away from where he was standing and reappearing next to Terry in a flash. “A thousand pardons young sir,” Colby quickly said, trying to finish dusting Terry off. “Colby had no idea who you were. Oh Colby is truly sorry for everything he did. Please forgive Colby sir.”

“It’s alright,” Terry said softly, “I think you just caught me by surprise.” Truth be told he was furious at the elf and wanted to boot him halfway across Scotland, but much to his surprise he was able to keep his emotions in check.

“You’ll have to forgive Colby Mr. Skeeter,” Harry said in a grandfatherly voice, moving closer to Terry. “He tends to be a bit…excitable when it comes to protecting my privacy. I’m certain you’ll want to begin, so if you’ll just follow me.” Terry nodded and Harry walked him back to the cottage, shutting the door as they went.

A/N: This has actually been in my head for a while, and Deathly Hallows essentially steeled my resolve to actually start writing it. It’s a complete canon rewrite, that is to say, there’s a lot of canon in here, just with a few minor (Relatively speaking, for me anyway) changes along the way.

Harry begins to tell his story, and reveals why he is telling it now, in the next chapter.

A/N: Some of this chapter will give you background on Harry’s children.

/ - / - / - /

Terry Skeeter slowly walked into the small cottage, his mind running with a thousand questions all at once. He followed the ancient legend, keeping a good two or three steps behind him as they slowly walked through the magically enlarged foyer. The entry hall was rather small, even for a magically enlarged room, with an umbrella stand in the corner by the door and a small broom closet off to the side. A few pictures hung on the wall, mostly of what Terry recognized as the almost equally famous children of Harry Potter.

One urban legend that surrounded Harry was that, when he was a child, he had been predicted to have a long life, be Minister for Magic and have twelve children. While the first part had certainly come true, the other two had not. He had never even once considered running for Minister, and he only had seven children, not twelve. The oldest was nearly a century old in his own right. James Albus Potter had in fact run for Minister for Magic, and had served in that capacity for nearly twenty years now. It could have been Harry for all that was certain as he was nearly an exact duplicate of him from the messy black hair to the sparkling green eyes.

His eldest daughter, about sixteen months younger than James, was Lillian Rose Potter, called Lily for short. She was much her mother’s daughter as she was Harry’s, possessing Hermione’s looks and brains with Harry’s iron will and courage. She had gone a different route, becoming a healer of rather great notoriety.

Daniel Sirius Potter had followed initially in his father’s footsteps, becoming an Auror and eventually moving to Norway to become an instructor at the Drumstrang Institute, primarily because he didn’t really want to work for his father. Once Harry had gone into semi-retirement however, Daniel had gone to Hogwarts to take up the position of Defense Professor.

Casey and Samantha Potter were identical twins, and shared their father’s love for Quidditch, each becoming beaters for the Holyhead Harpies and leading said team to five straight National Championships.

Andrew Potter was something of the black sheep of the family. He looked nothing like Harry or Hermione, instead more resembling Hermione’s father with piercing black eyes and a messy head of dirty blonde hair. He had been the only Potter not sorted into Gryffindor, instead finding his way into Slytherin, and becoming something of a troublemaker while he was there. He worked for the Department of Mysteries, researching of all things, death.

Finally there was Emily, the gentlest soul of the many Potter children and the youngest. She had followed in her mother’s footsteps as well, becoming an advocate for the underprivileged witches, wizards & magical creatures of the world. Indeed all of Harry’s children had gone on to have fulfilling and legendary careers in their own right. Some of Harry’s grandchildren and even great-grandchildren had gone on to have productive careers. Terry remembered that recently, Harry had become a great-great-great grandfather for the first time, as the young Nicolette Weasley had been born.

“If there’s one thing I’m proud of more than anything in my life,” came a raspy voice from ahead of him, “It’s my family. I’ve always had one to a certain degree, but this family that I helped create is such a part of me that…oh you probably don’t want that in your book do you?” Terry turned and glanced at Harry, who looked back at him with twinkling eyes. “After all, people just want to read about my adventures don’t they?”

“I don’t know about that,” Terry said hesitantly as he moved through the various number of pictures mounted on the wall. “I mean, sure that’s what most people want to read about. But there are a good number of people who want to read about your life. There are so many questions people have…so many questions I have…” he trailed off, surprised to see Harry chuckling. “Did I say something?”

“No…it’s just that you remind me a lot of your grandmother.” Harry turned back and walked towards a small opening at the end of the hall. He walked through to find a large great room with a happily smoldering fire in the ornate brick fireplace off in the corner. The walls were painted a calming tan, a bit darker than the rest of the house’s paint décor (that Terry had seen, anyway). More pictures lined the walls, both muggle and magical, creating a variety of moving and still pictures throughout the room. One picture in particular caught Terry’s eye. It was situated on a large cabinet at the far edge of the room, on which sat several family photos. Dead in the center of the cabinet was a large picture in a white frame. It was taken in autumn, and featured a far younger Harry and what Terry assumed to be a far younger Hermione Potter dancing slowly in the moonlight, each clad in their wedding robes. “I always did like that picture,” came Harry’s voice, cracking a bit at the memory. It was understandable, thought Terry, considering that his wife was now dead.

“How long has it been,” Terry asked, taking close care to examine the picture.

“Two years this month.” Harry replied, rubbing his eyes behind his oval-rimmed glasses. He snickered morbidly, “That’s why I always hate the month of June. So many people were taken from me in this month.”

“How did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, not at all.” Harry walked over and leaned against the cabinet, his eyes shimmering with though and memory. “It was simply time catching up with her. We learned when she was pregnant with Lily that this would one day happen. The curse that a Death Eater hit her with when she was younger had left a lasting impact on her body and magical core. Her magic was strong enough to fight off the corrupting influence of the curse, but one day would not be, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Merlin knows we tried. We saw every healer and specialist in Britain and throughout the world that we could think of. But in the end, after six years of searching, we decided just to make the best of what years we would have together. I was blessed to have a century of her love and her life. About four years ago she began to fade. We tried strengthening potions, but it was only delaying the inevitable. Six months before the end she was confined to this house, which is why I left Hogwarts so that I could be with her. Two months before the end she was limited to her movements, and she spent the last two weeks in bed.” He stopped, catching his breath and trying to control his emotions.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”

Harry waved him off. “It’s alright. It’s just still fresh in my mind is all. He cleared his throat and motioned for Terry to sit down. “But enough about that, you probably need to get started. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Butterbeer if you have it,” Terry replied, sitting down across from Harry, who slowly lowered himself into a large purple chair.

“Colby,” Harry said aloud, causing the elf to quickly pop into existence next to him. “Two butterbeers please, and keep them full if you don’t mind.”

“Healers be saying Master should be drinking tea…and tea alone.” Colby said to Harry, his hands on his hips and his left foot tapping up and down. Harry groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Honestly Colby, you’re as bad as your mother sometimes. Fine…one butterbeer and some tea with lemon.” Colby nodded, smiling satisfactorily before snapping his fingers and disappearing. He reappeared a few moments later, both drinks in his hands.

“Master should call again if he needs anything. Colby will be right along.” At that, the elf promptly vanished into thin air once more. Harry chuckled to himself.

“He’s got the spirit of his father and the heart of his mother.” He looked at Terry who seemed befuddled. “I’m sorry let me explain. Colby is the son of two house elves whom I had the honor of befriending in my youth named Dobby and Winky. Poor Winky passed on about fifteen years ago, and Dobby shortly thereafter. With the children long since grown, I guess they thought it was their time. For the last two years it’s been Colby and me, save for when my children and grandchildren come over for a visit, when they can manage.”

“I thought you didn’t own any house elves,” Terry said, pulling out his quill and parchment roll. “I know your wife abhorred their enslavement and always tried to push for equal rights.”

“Yes she did. And I don’t own Colby. He works for me, for wages, just as his parents did. Hermione and I employed several house elves over the years, most of them freed elves from pureblood families that died out. The only elf I ever owned was a bloke by the name of Kreacher, and thankfully I didn’t own him for long.” His face darkened slightly, but didn’t linger for long, instead becoming more somber. “I guess the other answer to your question is because I am the only one left who can tell such a story. All of the people who witnessed it first hand are dead now. Ironic…that I would be the last one left. The Boy-Who-Lived indeed. Not that it will matter much before long.”

Terry cringed his brow in thought for a moment before his eyes went wide with realization. “You mean you’re?”

“Yes, my end is coming. I guess I’ve known that too for a long time. This is why I must tell my story now, before it goes to the next great adventure with me.” He paused, taking a sip of his tea. “So, where do we begin?”

Terry thought long and hard before he finally asked the most pressing question on his mind. Surprisingly, it had everything, and at the same time very little, to do with the book that needed to be written. “I guess my first question would be,” Terry clearly stated, “Would be to ask why now? Why after all these years have you finally decided to tell your true story…especially with so many…”

“Of the false stories out there?” Harry finished, causing Terry to nod his head. “That is exactly the reason. For years I have allowed these half-truths and crackpot theories to be played out. Every last Joe and Jane Merlin have their own idea as to what the truth is, and many of them shout it at the top of their lungs until the sound of it all is a cacophony of voices.”

“But some of them are partially true,” Terry noted, “Some of them even have your children in them.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Harry agreed, sipping his tea, “But those aren’t the ones I’m concerned with. It’s mainly the ones that have to deal with the time leading up to and right after my defeat of Voldemort over a hundred years ago. My Hogwarts years.” Terry nodded, and Harry leaned forward, picking up an orange covered book from the coffee table.
”Have you seen this one?”

Terry took the book from him and glanced at the cover, seeing a young Harry in battle with a cloaked wizard. Not finding a title or an author, he leafed through the book, seeing a few pages here and there, but laughing when he saw the very ending of it.

“But…this has you…”

“I know,” Harry said flatly, not at all amused. “And Merlin knows I cared for Ginny deeply, but the very idea of me marrying someone other than Hermione is downright insulting to me and my wife’s memory. It’s filth like that which has brought me to you, to set the record straight for history once and for all…lest something like…that…become the accurate truth in 500 years.”

Terry nodded, making sure to take down much of this for his introductory chapter, which was already beginning to formulate in his mind. He paused, double-checking that his dictation pensieve was working properly so that he could consult the interview more in-depth later if necessary, before he asked another personal question. “Why me, then? Out of all the established journalists…or for that matter your grandchildren who write for the Quibbler…why did you decide to ask me to write it?”

Harry let out a hearty laugh and smiled warmly at the young man. “Again, that was because of your grandmother. Some years ago I promised Rita that if I ever wrote my memoirs, I’d let her write them. I guess I was just putting it off, when she suddenly died.” Terry nodded morbidly, and Harry paused for a moment before he continued. “After that I promised myself that if I ever did decide to write them, I’d let one of her descendants do it for me. No disrespect, but your father was never much of a writer, so when I heard that you were a member of the Daily Prophet staff, I decided to offer it to you.” Terry smiled and drank the rest of his butterbeer, amazed when he found it quickly replenished the moment he set the glass down. “I knew Colby wouldn’t let me down,” Harry said with a smile.

Terry nodded and resituated himself on the small couch across from Harry. Crossing his legs and preparing to write, he started at the logical point. “Well I guess the best place to start is your time with the Dursley’s. I understand not much is known about those early years, and given the abuse you suffered at their….” Terry stopped when he saw Harry break out into another deep, hearty laugh. “What did I say?” he asked.

“I’m sorry but…” Harry answered back, wiping his eyes as he controlled his merriment, “That is one of the things that I was talking about earlier that the books never get right.” He lost all the happiness in his face as he thought about it for a moment, “It’s actually one of the things I regret most about letting these things go on for as long as they have. I let my own worry and fear get in the way of clearing their names.” Terry cocked an eyebrow, but Harry stopped him from asking the obvious question, “I wasn’t treated badly by the Dursleys, far from it as a matter of fact.”

“But…even the accurate books say that…”

“Books can be deceiving Terry,” Harry said with a mindful tone. “But I won’t patronize you, just tell you the way things were…let’s see…how do I begin…”

A/N: It’s far shorter than I would have liked, but I intend on revealing much more information about the future and everything later.

The story will not change tense, but will be alternating between the two time frames repeatedly. I’ll try and include different scene divides (different from my usual ones) to indicate that we are switching back to the future (or present, in this story’s universe) or back to the past.

The concept of the Dursley’s treating Harry well was the basis for another fanfiction I started writing but never posted called “The Life of Harry Dursley.” Several elements (though not the idea of Harry considering Vernon and Petunia his real parents) from that story will make their way into this one.