Chapter Two: He Dreams of Running -- And Memories of Things Best Forgotten
In which Harry wakes up in a place strangely familiar, and meets people who died a long time ago

As I was walking up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd stay away.
- Hughes Mearns
---
-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary --

Month Unknown, Day Unknown, Year Unknown

He woke with his customary jerk. It was like coming out of a nightmare too terrified to scream -- only there had been no nightmare last night; his body wasn't pumping adrenaline, and he felt cold when he was always panting and burning hot when the nightmares came. It was so strange to wake up cold. Without further movement or opening his eyes – which was useless, for if anyone had seen him jerk they would already know he was awake – he attempted to survey the room.

He was on the floor – it was cold and hard, stone worn smooth by footsteps under the frozen flesh of his cheek. Judging by the airflow, he was in some sort of elongated room, either at ground level or below judging by the chill. Night was his third judgment, made by the pure silence. Stone may not have carried sound well, but it did carry vibrations well enough, and the floor was still under his sensitive fingertips. One last check – no, it seemed no one was in the room, or else they were being remarkably quiet and still. He finally deemed it time to visually assess the room.

He'd been wrong, he realized, once he opened his eyes and sat up. It wasn't a room; it was a hall. An almost ... achingly ... Thought halted. Harry reached desperately for his wand, chest heaving once, twice, trice before it froze still. His hand found nothing. His brain jumpstarted once more, and he rose to his feet, thinking, thinking desperately while a corner of his mind gibbered.

When cornered, or taken by surprise, Harry often lost his right mind. Hermione coined it 'shut down', and Harry had read enough books to know why she had. It was not an intentional cruelty, her calling his survival methods by the same name that so many victims of abuse used. The incorrect thing was, Harry never entered that state while he was actually being abused. When he couldn't hold his wand, he couldn't shut down.

And Hermione, dearest Hermione, hated it when he did. He completely stopped thinking – it was all pure act-and-react, blind and unfeeling – a creature's way of assessing the region and situation, a creature's way of moving, a creature's feral responses, dangerous. But did her feelings really matter anymore? After all, Hermione was crumpled and red and dead-dead-dead.

There was a part of him – felt more in the pit of his stomach – that was panicked to be without his wand. You are still dangerous, the wolf cackled in his mind. You don't need those silly sticks of wood to be deadly and fight and strike and kill. Never mind that sightless thing, though, it whispered in his mind with teeth-baring amusement. You're a hunter – you're dangerous. It would be easy to listen to the dark creature's instincts, and Merlin knew that Harry did so many, many times. Dangerous to an unarmed wizard, perhaps, he muttered sullenly back. A whimpering puppy at the hands of someone who knew what they were doing!

Between the Death Eaters and the Resistance, Harry had learned that lesson, and learned it well. He had to, or die. No matter how good he thought he was doing, or how trained he thought he was, there was always someone better, someone quicker, someone with just a few more years experience who wanted his head on their wall. And even when there wasn't, there was that damnable thing called dumb luck, and never forget that for all the brilliant good luck that he always had, he also had all the bad luck that did its best to leave him dead – very dead – to make up for it. Never let your guard down, boy, that cackling voice said. You'll get your ass bit off!

So busy was he denying that the hall was what every sense told him it was, and so busy bitterly reminding himself that he had to be careful, that irony almost did just that. His head jerked when he noted the footsteps and the strange twilight that preceded someone who was monitoring the halls, and he quickly dashed down the hall on silent feet before he found a corner to dodge around. It was then that another discrepancy came to his attention. The familiar pull of skin across his back was most unfamiliarly different.

That night, when he led Remus away from stupid innocents that would never know any better and the deceitful hunters who would never care the difference, it was his back that the werewolf got with gleaming teeth and vicious claws. It was his back – his back – so why didn't the massive scarring pull so much in that weird way it did when he'd twisted around the corner in an unnecessarily fluid move? As he quickly slipped down the corridor, steps silent the way only dodging wizards and aurors could make one, he gave his visible parts a curious once-over.

Harry wanted desperately to surrender to shut down. Shut down was safe, because he wasn't supposed to have those still slender arms, and unmarked skin. This skin was smooth and tanned from the outdoors, and his hair wasn't nearly as short as it should be, as he had cut it once physical fights had entered the war scene. His clothing was the same – still the same ragged robes and clothes stolen from laundry hanging to dry, robes that would have made even Remus blush to claim – but they hung so loosely on this frame, much more loosely than he had begun wearing it. He was never comfortable with things that came too close to the skin, but this recalled the worse days when Dudley practically exploded, and Harry had become so thin. His hands pulled and tugged uselessly on the pocket that his wand used to hide in, and it was still gone, and he still had to think-think-think. How had he gotten into Hogwarts, and how would he get his wand?

He ignored – he had to – the amused whisper that said this wasn't his Hogwarts. His sense had said as much – there was something distinctly unfamiliar about it, far too much for it to be the same Hogwarts he'd left two years ago. Even with the passage of time, shouldn't it smell even the slightest hint of anything familiar? There was little familiar though, and his years spent after graduation as a werewolf within the walls gave him little room to doubt himself and bring some peace to his mind.

What to do, then? He had to get in touch with whoever was in charge. There, he had a goal. Now he had to achieve it.

Taking this all in amazing stride. But he had no time to panic and question; circumstance demanded that he worry about survival first – very first, and once he was safe he could worry-worry-worry. When he was safe and he knew what was going on, then he could panic and get mad and plan revenge and smirk and chuckle and make everyone else throw those cautious frightened looks about like party favors. But not until then. Doing so before he was safe could kill him, and then where would he be? Behind the veil and offering silly sheepish looks to pouting frowning people who'd left him behind and were terribly upset he'd caught up.

All right then, the Headmaster's office, where darling sweet Minerva had learned to sit and purse her lips and frown with those sad-sad eyes. At the very least, he could get in touch with her, or whoever her replacement was and perhaps get himself out of Hogwarts uninjured, and hopefully no one would be too very upset that he'd showed up unannounced and without an explanation as to how he'd gotten there. The wards around the castle were extremely vicious these days, and if he tried to leave on his own, he simply couldn't. No one could surpass Hermione's spell spinning when she put her mind to it, and Bill had always made unhappy noises when he was called in to unravel it. Harry couldn't say how he'd bypassed the wards to begin with, for it should have been simply impossible, nor could he say what he was going to do once he got out of them since he lacked his wand. He could only hope that Ollivander would be able to give him some sort of replacement and wouldn't frown too heavily to learn that Harry's very special wand had been lost – perhaps forever. He doubted the Resistance would ever let him have his back in one piece.

Forget the smell of the place – shouldn't some of the paintings be different? He frowned at the walls, sharp eyes behind thick lenses cutting through the murk, and spotting places paintings should be, and paintings he didn't recognize. He was certain he'd haunted the halls enough at night to know for certain where they all belonged. He forcefully redirected his attention. Later. That would all wait until later.

Then the gargoyle loomed before him, and he had to find a way in to the Headmaster's office. He wondered sardonically if he should knock when he got there, and if that would work at all. It was night, and the castle was silent like the tomb, and he wasn't even sure if Minerva or whoever would be in. He reached forward and tickled the gargoyle's chin; he'd learned that many things would open to a little affectionate scratching. It leapt aside, and he started the long walk up the stairs. At the door, he figured knocking couldn't hurt; they'd all become so much sharper, easier to wake and quicker on the draw during the difficult times. Hopefully whatever automatic or dramatic responses the Headmaster had, blasting someone knocking on his door wouldn't be one of them. He rapped on the door, wondering how he was supposed to explain something he didn't even understand.

It might not be surprising he didn't understand, of course, he thought as he knocked again. After all, he knew next to nothing about those things that weren't immediately important for his survival. How to heal wounds, how to brew certain points like Pepper-Up and Poly-juice, basic notice-me-not spells, and hexes and jinxes ranging from the cruel to the absurd numbered his repertoire of skills, but kidnappings and exotic potions were beyond him. One never knew what could come in handy, but one tended to forget theory and reasoning when one was too busy dodging Unforgivables to think.

The door opened, Harry caught sight of the man, and his hand ripped the pocket that should have held his wand. His mind stuttered, he sucked in air as if sucker-punched, his knees went wobbly, and Moody would have killed him seven times over. Harry couldn't help it though. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be his Hogwarts – there wasn't a doubt that this wasn't his Hogwarts. What was going on?

"Dumbledore?" he croaked. He had seen this man fall from the tower. No one but Harry had ever survived Avada Kedavra. No one could survive both at the same time. No one could, Dumbledore was dead, and Harry swayed on his feet like someone out at sea.

The Headmaster, dressed all in blue sleeping robes with golden shimmering moons, crooked an eyebrow at Harry, his blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. It was not the joyful twinkling knowledge that Harry was accustomed to, but it still made his stomach heave sickly. "Well, this is certainly interesting. Young man, please, come in."

Harry numbly followed the old man – old, yes, but not as old as when Harry saw him last, with those blue eyes already knowing, knowing, and that bright flash of green – and sat in the chair in front of his desk with a heaviness that he'd only ever seen Remus do, that night that Sirius died.

"Taffy?" Dumbledore inquired, gesturing to a glass bowl filled with little colored squares wrapped in wax paper. Harry almost declined when his other habits got the better of him and he took one. Candy might not be healthy, but it was something, and during war it didn't pay to be picky.

"Thank you," he mumbled around it. Apparently, Dumbledore hadn't gotten to the lemon drops yet. He seemed to Harry at that moment to be like some overgrown five year old, eating nothing but his favorite candy until he burned out on it and had to try something else. Harry chewed on the taffy, and sensibility returned to his sluggish mind. He carefully, carefully considered what information he had collected, and carefully sorted out the possibilities. The most likely situation was plainly that what he had been told was a youth serum was actually another potion that would convince the victim that they were in another setting, talking to people they trusted; either Malfoy had lied, or the Resistance caught on. That was insidious, and it meant that Harry could not tell anyone he spoke to anything that wasn't already common knowledge. If he managed to find out what the setting of this hallucination was, then he could pretend complete ignorance of anything inappropriate (and he thanked and blessed Hermione's soul for teaching him to actually think before he acted and to reason and be smart).

A less likely, but no less loathsome possibility was that he had finally gone over the deep end with a dead dragon tied to his feet.

Finally he looked up at the rather patient – but no doubt completely in control – headmaster, and opened his mouth. "This will be difficult, Headmaster. Both in deciding what shall be done and accepting the answers I give you."

"Don't worry about it, my boy," Dumbledore said. "Just tell me what you've come to say, and I'll do the deciding. Now, can you tell me how you arrived here at Hogwarts?"

"I'm a little confused by that myself," Harry admitted unwillingly. He had never taught himself how to lie to Dumbledore. The old man hadn't been around for Harry to do so, and that made this potion even more terrible than he previously realized. Before he continued, he carefully gauged the age of the headmaster, and determined that this setting seemed to have been set before he was even born, which meant that it was likely that Moldie Voldie was still running rampant. "I'm fairly certain this was not the intention of the people who had me last. I assure you, I mean Hogwarts no harm, and I have some knowledge of what is going on at this time, so to a certain extent I will be perfectly willing to give you what evidence you require to assure that I am not here to cause any trouble."

"Then I suppose you know what my first request will be?" the headmaster inquired.

Harry did not hesitate to bare both arms and turn them so the largely unmarked stretches of tanned skin could be seen in its entirety. "As for assuring you that I am not one of What's-His-Face's unmarked allies, I can't offer anything. I will insist on not taking any Vertiserum; I can not stand the stuff."

The illusion of Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "And that silver scar on your arm? Phoenix tears, wasn't it?"

Harry could see no reason to lie, though they would be here all day if the illusion inquired about all of his scars. "I was bit by a rather large basilisk, sir," he admitted. "Phoenix tears saved my life."

"If you won't accept Vertiserum," the headmaster said. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind a few other options. The first is to come face-to-face with Fawks; he is a phoenix that has decided to honor me with his presence, and I'm certain he wouldn't mind determining if you are a danger. Then, I would like to subject you to Hogwarts' own Sorting Hat. The Sorting Hat is not usually used for this purpose, but since no thought is hidden from him, I am sure he would prove willing enough to give his own opinion."

"I have no problem with Fawks," Harry said, but paused. How likely was it that this illusion could actually prove to be dangerous? He was not afraid of what the Sorting Hat might say anymore, but he was concerned that the Sorting Hat might prove to be an analogy to a similar device among the Resistance. What the Resistance might hope to glean from what he knew, he couldn't say. Harry had lost contact with the werewolf pack that had grudgingly taken him in, and therefore he could not give up their location. He had no friends that required hidden locations that he knew of, and he didn't know any secrets. The Order of the Phoenix, while still in place even after all that had happened, had cut their ties with Harry as well. The last two years of his life, he had been a dangerous figure politically, and it paid no one well to know him or to have proven connections with him. Finally, he nodded. "And I'll accept the Sorting Hat as well." It would be best not to let whoever was watching in on these illusions know that he was suspicious.

The old wizard rose with a vague smile on his lips. "Good, good," he said, making his way over to the shelf were the patched and ragged thing slumbered. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you, and were did you get your education?"

Harry shrugged half-heartedly at the old man's back. "I don't know my age for certain, sir. I was home schooled in a tiny wizard's village, and we guess my age at around fifteen or sixteen. I rather insisted on being vague on my age, since I can't say for certain." Actually, he was doing his best to guess at the age his body was currently. He guessed somewhere around there, but he couldn't be certain.

"Oh? Ward of the village?" Dumbledore inquired as he made his way back to the desk, the Hat in hand. He whistled sharply before sitting.

"Something like that," Harry said vaguely. "No one knows for certain what happened, but even if they don't say it, I know they suspect that Dark wizards got my parents."

"That's very sad, and unfortunately not very rare," he acknowledged.

There was a sudden burst of fire midair as Fawks appeared, crying a high and sad tune; Harry nearly recoiled as the wolf within him twisted painfully in his chest, and he had forgotten, of course, that werewolves were Dark creatures, and phoenix were of the Light. Fawks flew above the two men, and then came to perch on Dumbledore's shoulder. Harry took a deep breath, then looked at the beady black eyes. He did not try to project anything, nor did he try to hide anything. The glittering black eyes stared back at him then the phoenix rose its head and began crooning softly. Fawks took off from the headmaster's shoulder and settled on his perch, ruffling his feathers and then tucking his head beneath a wing.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," the headmaster said vaguely. "Now the Hat, if you don't mind?"

Harry uncertainly reached for the Hat. He was not certain how to take the way Fawks had reacted to him. Carefully, he straightened out the dear old Hat, and set it on his head. For a long moment, he was alone in the darkness, and then the cloth shifted.

"Well, hello there," the same small voice he remembered from his first year whispered in his ear. "I see, I see. Very interesting. Ah-hah ... Yes, I do see. Rather tragic and all.

"Yes, I see that you have lied to my dear friend Dumbledore, but I do not see any malicious intent. You have plenty to spare, dear boy, and that is something I see clearly, but none of it aimed at Hogwarts or Dumbledore. Very vicious. Killed with your bare hands – very sad. Very bloody. Now, don't react like that, my young friend. I also see what you've done for the Light."

I never wanted to bring harm to anyone who didn't deserve it, he insisted silently.

"Ah ha, but some deserve it that you would protect. A nice double standard you have there. Yes, I see the whole story now." Suddenly, the voice wasn't so small and only in his ear. "You have nothing to be concerned with from this boy, Albus," the Hat said. "A Gryffindor's heart, it's true. No, he'll cause you no more trouble than you would yourself." Then it was tiny in his ear. "A Gryffindor heart, but boy, I tell you, you've a Slytherin's soul."

Harry shivered terribly at that and snatched the Hat from his head, belatedly easing his grip and setting the Hat carefully on the table; he had thought he no longer had anything to fear from the Hat's words, but he was quivering inside from uneasiness. The Hat huffed and puffed a little where he set it.

"Startled you a little, did I? Well, never mind," it muttered to itself. "Albus, next time don't wake me so early. It's hardly worth my time to sleep before the next sorting, and so now I'll have to be terribly bored."

"I apologize for that, my old friend," the headmaster said as he lifted the Hat and carried it back to the shelf. "I trust you understand my reasons, though."

"Oh, I'd watch out for that one if I were you, I do not blame you," the Hat chuckled. "Now, let me be while I put the finishing touches on this year's song."

Finally the old man turned back to Harry. "Now, with that formality is over, let us introduce ourselves like civil people would if there were no war to make some forget their manners. My name, as you must have guessed, is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the current headmaster for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"I'm Harry," he replied, reaching out to take the headmaster's hand. "Harry – just Harry," he finished awkwardly. He'd grown to resent his surname in recent years, and the illusion did not change that.

The headmaster took it all in stride. "Alright, Harry. Now, you said that someone had you earlier, and that sending you to Hogwarts was probably not their intention."

"I did," he agreed. "I seemed to have gotten on the wrong side of a group of wizards. They had glamours, I couldn't tell you what they looked like, but they gave me some potion, and I woke up in the hall not far from here. I don't have my wand, so I can only guess that they still have it – and I hope they haven't broken it." Harry was very really terrified of that thought. Being a wizard was all he had now, and he was loathed to lose that as well.

"Can you at least tell me where your village is? Perhaps a name, or the name of a nearby town?"

Harry thought fast. There was a spell that Hermione used to use – sort of like the Feidilous charm, but completely different in the spinning. "I can't – we're all under a charm. We were doing our best to hide from Dark wizards, you see, and that means hiding the location from both friend and foe. I'm not even sure I could find my way back, since I've never been outside."

"That does present a problem," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "So there is no chance at all you'd be able to return to your village? No one we could contact to return you to, or anything like that?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry said, projecting as much of his real fear of never escaping the Resistance and whatever illusion they had trapped him within into those words.

The headmaster hummed at him, reaching for another piece of taffy. Harry sat dismally silent while the illusion carried on. Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "Very well then. I suppose we'll have to enroll you into Hogwarts."

Harry blinked rapidly, and then internally seethed. He would not have put it past the creator of this potion to be Snape, for surely only Snape could come up with something so completely evil that it would not only trap him in an illusion, but that the illusion itself would trap him in the place he felt safest. "If you think that's best," he choked out.

"There will have to be arrangements made, of course. I shall have to alert the Ministry to your existence, and I suppose it would be best to claim you to be sixteen. That way, you'll have more rights and input into their decision as far as a guardian for you."

"A guardian?" Harry echoed, appalled. Surely he wouldn't end up with the Dursleys – or worse!

"Of course. It'll only be for one summer at most, though. I suppose I shall have to ask around to see if anyone would be willing to vouch for you. I don't think there should be any problem with that – you may not look it, but you are very mature. How good are your spells, Harry? I might have to put you in remedial classes so that you can keep up with the other students, or arrange tutors."

"I know enough to get by," Harry said weakly. He had graduated fourth at Hogwarts, and then went on to fight a war and dodge adult wizards for nine years. 'Enough to get by' was no exaggeration.

Dumbledore had pulled out a length of parchment, and was writing on it. "Very good," he said distractedly. He wrote at some length, then paused. "What shall we say your name is, dear boy?" he asked. "Its a rare chance to name yourself."

"I don't care, really," he muttered.

"No preferences at all? No? Very well," the wizard said and went back to his writing, scrawling some name across the paper that would now belong to Harry. "This process should take a few days if we do this with no information at all," he said. "However, if you'd like, I could take you to Diagon Ally for some spells and potions that could reveal any blood relatives you might have outside your home."

That sounded interesting, and maybe if this wasn't all just a lie, Harry would have accepted. "No, sir, thank you anyway, sir," he said.

"Any preferences for your date of birth?"

... born as the seventh month dies. "Maybe you ought to make it early October," Harry suggested vaguely. "So I'll turn sixteen during the school year."

"That sounds just fine," Dumbledore said. He scribbled a few more lines, and then blew gently on the parchment. "I'll owl this off in the morning," he said. "And there might be forms to fill out later, or perhaps the Ministry will send someone to talk to you personally, or request your presence. Either way, you should become a registered wizard by the end of this week."

"What about my school supplies?" he asked, blinking.

"Well, you'll have to settle for the public school supplies, I'm sorry to say. As for your wand, since you've lost your own without much of a chance to recover it, then I have a few old ones laying around you could try. They won't be nearly as good as your old wand, but one of them should work well enough."

He nodded dully. He was loathed to try to work with any wand that wasn't his own, but he didn't dare tell Dumbledore that in this illusional world, they could probably jog down to Ollivanders and get his wand all over again. "So where will I be staying?"

"That does prove a bit of a problem," Dumbledore said. "But I think we shall keep you in a spare bedroom until the school year starts. Then, we'll move you to the Gryffindor towers. The Sorting Hat did say you had the Gryffindor spirit."

Harry did not bother to correct the illusion. "Alright," he said demurely.

"Now, it is rather late," the headmaster said as he checked a clock. Harry was completely lost as to how he managed to read the thing. "So I'll have to take you personally to your room. In the morning, Professor McGonagall will take you to obtain your books from the school's supply room. Once you are registered with the Ministry, someone will take you to Diagon Ally to get your robes. We will have to collect reimbursement for that, of course, so it's up to you whether you want to go to Madam Malkin's or the second hand robe store."

Harry smiled crookedly. "The second hand robes are fine," he said. They would be better than what he had been wearing for years now.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, standing. "Come with me."

Harry rose and followed the headmaster out and down halls and up stairs, following the twisted paths of hateful illusions – or perhaps, the even more twisted and mad paths of chance.

–

August 30th, 1997

"Hello, Harry," Remus said tolerantly as the bar of chocolate slid out of his pocket. He turned the page of the book, luminous golden eyes scanning it unceasingly. "How was your summer?"

"Wretched," Harry admitted, removing himself from the werewolf's personal space. He broke off a bit of chocolate, sucking on it as he glanced over the book Remus was reading. His eyes fell, uncomfortable. Remus was looking through a book of spells to use on werewolves – he was currently looking at the ones made specifically to contain them. He felt another surge of hatred toward Snape. Not only had the bastard killed Dumbledore, he'd depriving Remus of his potions. "How is Tonks doing?"

Remus glanced up and gave one of his smiles that didn't reach his eyes. "As well as always. She managed to bring the pot rack down yesterday, so dinner was cooked in a dented pot."

"What a coincidence," Harry said dryly. "I dented a pot over Dudley's fist, and had to cook dinner with it as well."

"Well then," the old man said as his eyes glinted with amusement. "We've had a very similar summer."

Harry grinned to see Remus' mood rise even the slightest. He wanted desperately to help in some way – to lighten Remus' burden in some manner, but the werewolf had sharply denied him any access to the books that could teach him how to become an Animagus, and Hermione had yet to find any books with the formula for Wolfsbane Potion.

He had left the Dursleys on his birthday, making remarks about it being his birthday gift to himself. Most of August had been spent at the Burrow, but finally, Remus relented to his nagging letters and said that he could spent the last two days of summer at his house with Tonks and himself.

"I heard from Hermione that you plan on running not only the DA, but the ... I believe you decided to call it the 'Dogs of War'?" Remus inquired.

Harry flushed. "It's a working name," he grumbled. "But honestly, I might as well. In fifth year, Neville and Luna insisted they come with me to the Department of Mysteries. We're working so hard that we can't have normal DA members thinking they can help us out, and I still wanted to help those who don't want to fight with me."

"Harry," Remus said, standing and putting the book away. He turned and set a hand on his shoulder. "You're so young, and all of these people ... they're children."

"But I don't have a choice – and you know that, Remus! And it's better for these children to be trained when they try to help me than to be untrained and getting killed quicker!"

"I know," he said softly, soothingly. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing."

Harry stared up into those weary golden eyes, feeling numb and lost. "I've known the cost of my actions since fifth year. I won't be making that mistake again."

Remus' hand fell away, and Harry left, the stolen bar of chocolate laying abandoned on the table.

–

Dear Harry:
I hope this letter finds you well.
Its hypocritical, but don't blame yourself.
- Remus Lupin
January 23, 2003

PS: You were the most important person in his life.
Please don't forget that.

-- I solemnly swear I will use the Darkness for Good --

As always, leave an email for me to reach you at when you post comments or questions in your reviews.

Posted: Sept 17 2007
Next Update Expected: Sept 24 2007