This is just a little something I thought of one day during my re-read of the series.
In His Head
He had done it. He defeated Voldemort. He had saved the world, and all was well.
His eyes took in the bleak whitewashed walls, examining a crack. He dragged his finger across it absentmindedly, pleased by his recent vicory. Why he was there, he did not know. He assumed he was in St. Mungo's, being treated for wounds he had inevitably accumulated during the battle. Dying tended to do that to a person, eh? The iron bed with the aging mattress squeaked against his measly weight.
The door creaked open, revealing a man in a long white coat. He almost seemed to blend into the walls, save for his red hair and freckles. He held a clipboard, looking over some files, glancing at him.
He thought he looked like Ron. Maybe he was a Weasley, too. After all, it was a large family.
"Son, can you tell me your name?"
He was taken aback. He thought everyone knew his name. He was the Boy Who Lived. Assuming that the healer was merely checking to make sure he had no head injuries, he answered.
"Harry Potter," the green eyed lad answered.
"Birthday?"
"The 31st of July, 1980," he said tiredly. What was the use? They should be celebrating!
"Parents?"
"James and Lily Potter."
The healer made a note, scribbling something. He looked up at Harry with a pitying look.
"Year?" he asked.
"1998."
He made another scribble, shaking his head.
"Harry," he said tentatively, "where have you been the past few months?"
"I was supposed to be at Hogwarts, but me, Ron, and Hermione went to find the horcruxes. And we did. Voldemort is gone now, you know that right? There was a battle..."
"Yes, of course. Tell me more about it. I wasn't there," the healer seemed genuinely interested, sitting down on a rickety chair, face earnest.
Harry smiled a little, feeling proud of himself. He wasn't much for gloating, but he felt he deserved a bit of it, now. He had ended the war.
"Well, the battle was at Hogwarts. Most of the students were gone, but so many wizards came to help. Mrs Weasley killed Bellatrix. Serves her right, killing Sirius."
"And who is Sirius?"
"My godfather. He fell behind the veil at the Department of Mysteries when we tried to get the prophecy. Voldemort was in my mind, and tricked me," Harry answered the questions, thinking nothing of it, "Are Ron and Hermione here?"
"No," he replied. "Harry, where do you think you are?"
"St. Mungo's," he hesitated, looking around, "being treated for wounds from the battle."
The healer shook his head, standing up. He left the room, leaving Harry to his own devices.
He looked around the room, recognizing it. There was a small trunk with his belongings. A broom, and the snitch. Except it was green and fuzzy, must be an old snitch, that was it.
There was a mirror, and a few photographs. Of the Dursleys, but none of his friends. He found it odd. Had his aunt and uncle actually cared enough to find out how he was? Dudley's fat face stared back at him, angering Harry until he crossed the room, slamming the photograph on the table. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was skinnier than he remembered, attributing it to months on the run. His hair was nearing his shoulders, his eyes sunken in. He was paler than ever, his hands twitchy. On his hand the faint scar of 'I shall not tell lies' remained. Maybe the healers could get rid of it.
He picked up the broom, and tossed the snitch into the air. For some reason, it didn't fly, but merely fell back on the ground. He shrugged, mounting the broom. It wouldn't budge. It wasn't his Firebolt. He tossed it aside, feeling suddenly very claustrophobic.
Harry crawled back onto the bed, bringing his knees to his chest. He rocked back and forth, frightened. Where was he? No one seemed to understand him.
The door opened again, a blonde girl carrying a tray of porridge and a scone with some tea.
"Luna," Harry breathed, relieved.
Luna smiled at him, her blue, wide eyes pleasant, "You remembered me, today."
Today? Had he lost his memory? No one would tell him anything.
"Luna, where are we? Where are Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville?"
He took in her outfit, white, matching the healer's.
She smiled softly, her voice light as it ever was, "Think, Harry. You've been here since you were fifteen."
"St. Mungo's," he guessed.
He hadn't been there since he was fifteen. He'd been at Hogwarts, learning, with his friends and Dumbledore.
"But Hogwarts, and Dumbledore…" he looked incredibly lost. His green eyes were glazed over as he tried to put his life together.
Luna set the tray of food aside on the table and sat next to Harry, taking his hand.
"Think. Your uncle brought you here after you attacked your cousin," Luna explained, her face solemn.
"I never attacked Dudley!" Harry leapt from the bed.
Luna took his hand gently, soothing him. He sat back down, enraged.
"He was very seriously hurt. You kept going on about Dementors, and Sirius, and Hogwarts."
"My school…"
She shook her head, "There's no such thing. You had gone to Smeltings before coming here."
"But I'm a wizard!" he yelled. Luna was being so bloody stupid, "and you're a witch!"
Luna sighed, standing, "Enjoy your breakfast."
She left the room as soon as she had entered, leaving Harry alone once more.
There were Dementors. They had tried to kill Dudley, but he saved him. This was all one big mess. He needed to explain, to get people to understand him. He jumped off of the bed, digging through his trunk. There was no sign of spellbooks, nor his wand, no Hedwig, and no letters from his friends. No pictures of them. The picture of his parents he did have didn't move. It's as if they never existed.
He slumped onto the ground, his head hurting. His scar, his scar didn't burn. He stood shakily, padding toward the door. He opened it slightly, poking his head out.
A few healers walked past, sending him strange looks. They moved forward. Harry walked the halls, barefoot, hearing snippets of conversation. Not, it was not St. Mungo's at all. It wasn't even magical.
He reached a living room, he supposed. A few people were seated, reading. There was a boy in a wheelchair, praying without end. A girl was curled up on a chair, a large, thick book in her lap. Her frizzy brown hair stood on end.
"Hermione," he started. Except, it wasn't her. Just like the healer wasn't Ron.
He wandered back to his room as if in a daze. He heard the nurses…'poor boy, been here years.'
'His aunt and uncle abused him. Kept 'im in a cupboard, didn't feed 'im. Surprised he didn't land here sooner.'
'Nearly killed his cousin.'
'Goes on about bein' a wizard, the loon.'
'Ye'd be crazy, too if ye were neglected yer entire life. No mum or dad, no friends to speak of…poor kid'
'But a wizard? Really?'
'It's all in his head.'
He reached his room, slamming the door. All in his head. It was all in his head. He looked at the tennis ball, picking it up.
It wasn't a tennis ball, it was the snitch. A small smile crossed his features. Now that Voldemort was gone, he and Ron could play. He tossed the ball in the air, catching it. He repeated the motions, grinning eerily. He could wait for his friends. It would only be a matter of time.
The shadow of the smile remained. He threw the ball in the air, catching it. He threw it again, over and over. The small green ball arched threw the air, right back into his thin hands. Over and over.
The End! I fully intend this as a oneshot. Really, what if Hogwarts was all just in Harry's head? He'd been through a hellish childhood as it were.
Please Review, I like feedback.