Hello. Welcome to "An alternate reality! :D Hope you enjoy! :D x
"Harry Potter," he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. "The Boy Who Lived."
None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting. Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and Bellatrix was panting, and Harry thought inexplicably of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips on his –
Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear –
He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
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Chapter one – waking up
He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he wasn't really alone. Something not too far away was beeping.
It was beeping quite loudly actually.
Harry, ignoring the beeping, dipped into his memory of the events, which had lead to him being here. He had been in a forest. There had been a man, unlike any other man. This man had red, gleaming eyes and a flat, snake-like nose. The man raised his wand. Harry had heard no words, but remembered a flash of green light and then falling into nothingness.
Pulling out of the memory and fearing what he would see, Harry pried open his eyes. Above him a pale silvery something was shining. He did not have his glasses. Harry frowned. His brain told him this was a snitch, a magical, flying ball used in the game of Quidditch, but it couldn't be.
Harry shook his head and raised an arm to grope for his glasses and wand. A hand pushed the cold frame of his glasses into his hand. His wand was not returned, but then again, Harry had not expected the enemy to give his wand back so easily.
"There you go, son." A voice said. Pain lashed at Harry's chest. His parents were dead. The person who spoke couldn't be his father. Harry shook himself. They've been dead for a long time, he told himself. The stone only brought back memories of them! They're dead and gone and no spell will bring them back!
Instead of demanding who this person was, Harry asked, "Where am I?" He shoved his glasses onto the end of his nose and glanced around. Everything was clean and white. He was in a bed. How strange. Even stranger was the fact that the beeping was a muggle heart monitor.
"You're in hospital, son. Had a nasty car crash. You'll be okay though." The voice, which belonged to a tall, lean man with white blonde hair, told Harry. Harry frowned. This man looked familiar, yet altered.
"Who are you?" Harry now asked. Cool, grey eyes looked down at him. Harry knew the answer before the man spoke.
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." A memory flew in front of Harry's eyes. It was the memory of an eleven-year-old boy saying those exact words in introduction on a train called the Hogwarts Express. "I'm your doctor. Do you know who you are?" Asked the adult version of that boy. This puzzled Harry. Draco had not been a doctor. Was this a trick made up by Voldemort to disable Harry so that he could take over Hogwarts?
"Harry Potter." Harry answered, confused.
"Good," 'Dr' Malfoy wrote something on a piece of paper attatched to a clipboard. "And, how old are you?"
Harry strained his memories. "Seventeen?" It came out as a question.
"Yes. Very good." 'Dr' Malfoy glanced up and understanding clouded his face. "I expect you've got a bit of a headache. Is your head a bit fuzzy?" He asked.
Harry nodded. He did have a headache, but his brain wasn't fuzzy. The longer Harry thought the more things he remembered. Harry, realising what Malfoy had said, sat up quickly. 'Dr' Malfoy pushed him down again.
"Woah, son. Where are you going?"
"Did you say my parents died in a car crash?" Harry demanded.
"Yes." Malfoy returned, clearly confused.
"Liar! Your master," Harry sneered the word, "Lord Voldemort, murdered them! What game are you playing?" Harry demanded.
"Lord Voldemort? No, the head doctor is Dr Nichols. Did you say murder? Do you remember something different then?" Malfoy asked, intrigued. The doctor wondered if he should call the police. Maybe the car accident had been something more sinister.
"What are you talking about? My parents died when I was one! All I remember is green light and a high laugh! Except when I get near dementors. Then I hear more." Harry shivered.
"Dementors?"
"You know what they are! Stop fooling around. Where's my wand?" Harry demanded, forcing himself into a sitting position and glancing around wildly.
"Wand?"
"Yeah, as in magic wand! What have you done with it?"
"Son, I think the crash has affected your brain. You do have a nasty cut on your forehead!" Malfoy explained. 'Dr' Malfoy then left, shaking his head and repeating the word mad. Harry sat in the tangle of sheets trying to work out where his wand would be.
Only moments after the 'doctor' had left a family of three entered the room.
"Harry, dear. Are you okay?" The woman asked. She had short, brown hair and was immaculately dressed. Beside her stood a plump, blond man with a red face and a moustache. His aunt and uncle, Harry recalled. The third person, a boy of his own age stood behind his parents a little. Harry recoiled into the bed sheets a little. They would not be pleased to see him.
"Yes, aunt Petunia." Harry answered mechanically in the polite, indifferent voice he had always used.
"Good." Uncle Vernon growled, but the tone was not the unpleasant tone that Harry's memories were showing him.
Harry was confused.
"Er, Harry dear." Aunt Petunia ventured, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Do you, do you remember w-what happened to your parents?" She asked, her eyes shining. Uncle Vernon averted his eyes and coughed gruffly. What was she on about? Did she expect him to believe the cock-and-bull story about the car crash, even when Hagrid had denied it? They had obviously fed this story to the doctor, who obviously wasn't the same Draco Malfoy, despite the similarities.
Harry thought. Anger welled up inside him at what Voldemort had done. He nodded and closed his eyes to fight the tears that welled up in his bright green eyes as he thought of his parents.
"Here." Aunt Petunia said. Harry opened his eyes and saw in her hands a photo of his parents. It was a photo of them dancing in an autumn street, but it didn't move like the one in his memory did.
"Thanks." Harry said all the same. This was kindness and pity he had not expected.
Harry had no clue what was going on. The Dursleys were here and reminding him of childhood experiences that he did not remember.
He remembered a castle with a lake, a common room laden with red and gold banners, his friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger and his wand. He remembered his wand. Holly and phoenix feather. He remembered his mortal enemy's wand shared the same core. Why did he have these memories if magic was not real?
A memory told him that his aunt and uncle did not like him asking questions, but he had to voice what was going on inside his head. He related some of his memories to Aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon. Dudley was gaping at Harry's head and his mouth opened and closed like that of a fish.
When he had finished, uncle Vernon announced, "Preposterous! That knock on the head has affected your brain." Uncle Vernon then ruffled Harry's already messy hair.
Aunt Petunia called for a doctor who came to give Harry a sedative.
"I'm not mad! And I don't need that!" Harry directed at the nurse as she brought the needle close to his forearm.
"Course not, dearie. Just lie still." She comforted, but Harry grew more and more enraged and frustrated. Aunt Petunia burst into tears, something that Harry had not expected since his as his memories told him that she hated, or at least disliked, him.
"I'm not mad, I tell you!" He shouted. He continued to protest until blackness enveloped him again.
The last thing he thought before the world went black was:
I'm not mad! Am I?
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