The Book
That night was a bad one, one that saw him sitting in the Black family library looking for an escape from reality among the treasure trove of books. Anything would do at this point, anything to take his mind off of the heinous ache that ripped through his chest. Anything to quiet the way his mind spewed verbal assault, telling him he ruined anything and everything good. It wasn't wrong. Every wonderful thing he touched crumbled to dust at his fingertips; Hogwarts, its architecture desolated and bloodied, his own friendships; breaking down and moving further apart. The whole fucking wizarding world would have been better off without him. How many lives could have been spared if he had never been born?
Too many, whispered his cruel mind. Too many, whispered the hoards of the dead that crowded his brain, seeping into every pore and crevice. Too many, chanted the chorus of loved ones he should have tried harder to save. Louder and louder they got; laughing and jeering and taunting, filling his mind with a song that called for his death.
All too suddenly the choir of the dead grew to unimaginable heights, the pain soaring and climbing still. He couldn't take it. The vitriol spewed at him from his own mind verged on the border of causing a migraine. His hand trembled as he moved it to steady himself against the sturdy shelves of the labyrinth-like library. A stabbing pain sets in as his hand reaches the height of the shelf, moving as though in slow motion. Before he can reign in the worst of the pain a gasp of pain rips itself from his throat and the hand that had been reaching for the shelf slams into the hardwood with enough force to shake it. A resounding thud echoes through the room and, as if by magic, the pain in his head subsides blissfully. The choir abandons its song and the dead return to their graves, leaving silence in their wake.
There's quiet after that, a quiet that he greedily takes advantage of as he hunches over, taking breaths deep and slow. The culprit of the obnoxiously loud noise responsible for snapping him back to reality sits unsuspectingly at his feet. A book, a small, thin thing so decrepit-looking that he fears it will crumble even the gentlest of touches. It throws him through a loop, seeing a book of such trivial size staring up at him imploringly. A book of such size never should have been able to cause such a clamorous crash, not even if dropped from the highest of peaks. Cautiously, he crouches down next to the book, which seems to be trying its best to look innocent. He doesn't risk trying to pick the thing up, the dubious circumstances of the books appearance firing off alarm bells in his head. With a deft hand he casts several detection spells on the unassuming book, frowning when they all come back clean.
He stares searchingly at the book for a moment more, watching it closely for any hint of danger. The tense atmosphere is ultimately broken when he huffs out a resigned sigh, moving the pick up the damned book from where it lays with a smug energy about it.
"Yes, fine, you win you little bastard." He mutters spitefully at the palm-sized book. Turning it over in his hand as he gets up, he reads the title.
"'A Fools Guide to Changing the Future'?" He reads out with increasing incredulity "Bit of a pretentious title, don't you think?" He asks no one in particular. He settles himself down on one of the library's many plush green chairs and prepares himself for a boring read on the theory of time turners or something equally unexciting.
He spends the rest of the night reading the book. It shouldn't have been possible for such a small thing to take so long to read, and yet, any time he finds himself nearing the end more pages appear. The book is decidedly not about the theory of time turners, nor is it boring in any capacity. As it turns out, 'A Fool's Guide to Changing the Future' is just that; a guide. An entirely too complex guide that walks the reader through an intricate plan to change past events. The book even details a varying list of time travel methods, organised by difficulty.
It has to be some kind of joke, and not even a particularly funny one at that. He can't allow himself the privilege of hoping, not when hope has failed him so many times. There was just no way it was this easy. All the tears cried, all of the people mourned, and some book just suddenly appears with an exact and detailed solution? Not fucking likely. She should go to sleep, try to forget about the sick attempt at a prank, maybe even write Ron and Hermione when he wakes up. He throws himself into research instead.
He chooses one of the easier methods, swayed into its favour by the necessity of The Veil. It takes nearly an hour of scouring the large library to find a tome containing information on The Veil, and even then what he learns ultimately amounts to nothing. The only thing he manages to gleam for the dusty run-down book is that the Department of Mysteries know about as much as he does; nothing. Even as the book prattles on about various half-baked- and increasingly ludicrous- theories on the properties of The Veil, he still winds up with a grand total of zero new pieces of information. The Guide wasn't much help either. Even considering the possibility of it being more than a prank, the only mention of The Veil- other than its location- is the fact that he's supposed to walk through it.
He can't say that he isn't considering it. He knows he shouldn't. He knows he should quit while he's ahead, hide the god forsaken book on the highest shelf of the most secluded corner of the library and go on living his life, forgetting it ever existed. But he can't. He can't put it down when there's a chance to do it all again, to go back in time to fix the world before it had a chance to shatter in front of him. An opportunity to save everyone he never got the chance to.
He had to at least try.
He's halfway through packing up his life into a single bag when he pauses, his tired mind surging towards the image of his friends. If he was really going to be trying his hand at changing the past, and if it wound up actually working, he would be leaving behind the life he had built here on the ashes of a war. It wasn't the best life- hell, if he had to say he'd probably even say it was downright shitty- but it was his, built with the help of the caring hands of the people he loved. Even if they had decided to take some time to themselves he knew that Ron and Hermione would never be too far away, and now he was planning on going back in time, undoing all their year together. There was no telling if he'd be able to work his way into befriending Ron and Hermione again if he went back. If he really thought about it, it would probably even be for the best if he actively avoided being close with them. It would hurt for sure, but in the end they would be safer without knowing him this time around. He was the whole reason they had been so deeply involved in the war, they'd have a better chance at a good life if he left them alone, no matter how much it hurt. His mind made up, he tosses a few more things into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and turning on his heel to exit the room. He makes it to the door, hesitating before the threshold. Before he can think better of his actions, he turns and dashes back into the room, stopping in front of his nightstand. Opening the drawer, he puffs out a soft breath as the Hallows sing their beckoning song at him. Muttering hearty curses he shoves the damn things under the other contents of his bag before turning and leaving his room for good, sparing only a small glance backwards. He has so much work to do.