Chapter 1

The room was cold. Not the temperature cold, the feeling cold. It was cold in a way even his old room hadn't been. The room had a single bed with a metal frame and a hard mattress, a metal chair with a thin cover on the seat – presumably a feeble attempt at comfort – and a closed curtain made of white sheet around one of the bare white corners of the wall. Harry assumed there was a toilet concealed behind it.

Looking around, Harry could see that what made the room cold were the colours. They weren't colours; they were plain and boring attempts to make the room look normal. The room wasn't normal, far from in fact. The memories hit him suddenly and Harry braced himself, ready for the visions to knock him unconscious. You see, this is why Harry was here; the visions.

He knew they weren't visions and that they were memories, but none of it made sense to Harry, even more so the Dursleys. The strange thing about them was that Harry – though the main appearance in his visions – was watching the memories, not living them. He always got the same vision; a sudden flash of green light, a tall beautiful woman falling and a baby, crying in a cot, a scar across his forehead. This scar was how Harry had identified himself as the baby, how he knew the visions weren't visions, they were memories.

Harry sat still in his bed and waited. The vision hit again and this time he was down. He didn't wake again until later, when the lights had turned out and a tray of food and a jug of water had been placed on the floor by the chair.

The tray held bread, ham, cheese, and water.

"It must be Tuesday." Harry muttered to himself. Every day was slightly different, but each week was always the same. Harry had been here for two weeks the next day and this was how he knew what day it was. Every day may have a different food, but it was always the same. He woke up, struggled through a few visions, woke again to breakfast on a tray – two Weetabix and a jug of milk – occasionally went to the toilet behind the curtain and sat on his bed waiting for the next meal or the next vision – whichever came first. So far he hadn't seen anyone, heard anything and hadn't found a door. That was the strange thing about the room; there was no door and no windows. The floor was white, the walls were white and the ceiling was white. The only thing telling Harry he was the right way up was the light on the ceiling.

No matter how hard Harry tried, he could never defeat the visions and stay conscious. This was why he hadn't seen anyone or found the door yet. He was awake, then the vision came and he was unconscious, then he woke and the food was there. It was enough to drive anyone crazy, which was hysterically ironic, because Harry was in a mental asylum.

When Harry woke after a few more visions, something different happened to his usual boring routine. There was a tray, but as well as food and water, there was a person. The man was old and tall. He looked frail and had a white beard and long white hair. His half-moon glasses were perched on the end of his hooked nose. Harry was shocked. He had expected to spend the rest of his life here, doing nothing and knowing nobody. To an eleven year old boy this was something to cry about, but Harry was too proud for that. He would just sit and gaze at nothing instead.

The man was staring at Harry; it was almost as if he was looking straight through him. He moved, the man's eyes followed him. He lifted himself off the bed and sat back down in a more comfortable position. The stranger didn't move or speak for a while. After a few minutes of staring, the man introduced himself.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am a professor and I would like to talk to you, Harry." His voice was slightly croaky with age and he adjusted his glasses as he spoke. He looked tired.

"I suppose they want you to examine my brain and see what's wrong with me, do they?" Harry asked, slightly bitterly. He cringed, he has sounded childish.

"Not at all my boy, I came myself because I would like to help you." He answered. His voice was kind and urged Harry to collaborate.

Harry didn't speak, he wanted more information before he did; he had spotted the camera and microphone in the corner opposite where the toilet was. He knew they would be listening and watching, not knowing who they were of course.

The professor sighed and continued.

"I am from a school Harry; a school for different students… for better students. I heard about you and decided to pay you a visit. We need to talk, but to do that we need to get out of this room because they can hear us."

"But-" Harry started, before the professor cut him off.

"I have arranged for you to leave this room and walk with me, but we only have five minutes. Please, for your own sake, don't interrupt just listen."

Harry decided it was better this way.

When they got back to Harry's room, the door was open. Harry had realised it was a slide door and could only be opened from the outside with a code number. He was stuck.

On the brighter side, he would be leaving soon. The professor was sorting everything out for him.

Harry was leaving the asylum because he needed to go to school. He legally had to. The professor had also loosely explained Harry's visions. The woman was a relative and Harry was the baby. This had all happened and they were memories. He had left it at that with the promise of more information the next time they met.

Their next meeting would be next Sunday when the professor would take Harry to his school. Harry couldn't wait already. He hadn't showered or changed clothes in so long. He really hoped he would get to before the first school day. Harry knew he smelt disgusting.

The professor left and the vision hit him again. It had been record timing between visions – almost an hour!

Harry made it to his bed before he was knocked unconscious and fell into a darker vision than before.

The week dragged on and on the Saturday night Harry woke to a woman in the chair. She was wearing all white and her hair was pulled back tightly, so he knew already that she worked at the asylum. She had come to ask him what he wanted for his last meal and stood to go to the door. The door was opened quickly by someone on the outside and she ran out, the door closed again before Harry could even think about making a bid for freedom. He wouldn't anyway, he was leaving tomorrow.

When the woman returned, she carried the tray in and sat on the chair.

"I love working here." She said. Her voice was harsh and Harry instantly hated her. He was good at picking out people's personalities. Hers was mean, cold and hurtful.

She sighed happily and looked at Harry, smirking.

"I mean, you get to deliver disgusting food to mental people and they don't even know you're there. Who knows what I could've done to the food… or to you even, whilst you were having one of those little nightmares of yours." She scowled and stood. "Anyway, I best be off, plenty more smelly freaks needing slop food."

Then she was gone. Harry was more angry than upset. He was angry at how he had no control over his life. He had gone from the top of the world to the bottom in under a minute, all thanks to one woman he didn't even know.

He sighed and tucked into his sausages and mash. Tomorrow would be better.