Rattling metal. Hooting. These were the first sounds that seered in his head. Next, was the sensation of a growing summer heat and the buzzing of cicadas.
He was going to wallop Leo for letting his damn bird out this early in the morning.
Slowly, one weary eye peering up at the ceiling, his expression soured at the strong beam of light shining directly on his face - did he forget to shut the blinds again? Turning on his side, his eyes flew open as he let out a high-pitched yelp.
Merlin, that hurt. What did he do last night?
Face pinching in consternation, he thought: that's right - the Quidditch pitch. He was rising high above the stands, whipping to the side as soon as he saw a flash of gold just out of the corner of his eye, and then...
A billowing dark mass ate up the sky, kludging directly into him.
Soothed, he let out a tight exhale, blearily watching a cloud of tiny dust motes shoot upward into the light.
"Mum?" he coughed, mouth oddly dry and stiff - must've been in the hospital wing and then sent home to sleep off the match. Though he never remembered his mattress being quite this firm.
More hooting. "Quit screeching, girl."
He patted around him roughly, easing up despite the sharp protests shooting through his body. Where was he?
If it wasn't so painful, Harry thought he would've gasped, but could only manage one dry: "Mum?"
Curled yellow wallpaper. An iron bed frame with a small cot and taut beige sheet. A shattered picture frame resting near the dustbin. Some reddish-brown substance caked underneath his fingernails, coating the floor, and he was sporting overlarge clothing he never remembered owning.
Calm down, Harry. Keep breathing. How did you get here?
Scooting to the wall in painful half measures, he shook with the effort it took to levy himself off the ground. He patted his trousers - no wand. No wand, okay. Breathe, Harry.
The strange white owl fluffed up and let out another high-pitched keel. "Shhh," Harry soothed, grasping out blindly to undo the latch on the metal cage, before reeling back when the damn thing nipped him on the finger.
Immediately the bird went silent, giving him a peculiar stare with fully-dilated pupils. Straining, he was almost certain he could hear soft footsteps padding up a flight of stairs.
Escape - escape - he eyed a series gnarled black bars rooted off of the single window. Shuffling over, slowly, he peered outside, just barely catching a glimpse of rows of neat, brown-stone homes that seemed to stretch forever, before he heard a small click just outside the room.
Clamping his mouth shut, Harry eased down to the floor, staring wide-eyed as more series of muffled clicks were followed by the door inching open just a crack.
"Up, up," a shrill, feminine voice hissed. The door pushed out with a creak.
A long thin woman in lavender peered down at him with a sneer - if Harry wasn't mistaken, he thought her eyes widened immeasurably, as if thrown into shock at the coppery substance mottling the floor, before her expression clamped down again. "Well, obviously you're well enough to weed the garden."
Sniffing, she set down a lukewarm bowl of brown soup and a half-filled glass of milk, edging it just slightly past the threshold as if too filled with distaste to get any closer.
"Clean yourself up before tonight," she hissed, barely sparing a look at him before pulling the door shut.
What just happened?
Harry strained to hear above the thrumming in his chest and ears. No clicks. If he'd been kidnapped, why didn't she lock him in again?
He inched forward, carefully, so that the floor didn't creak.
Get familiar with your surroundings - that's what his dad would say in a situation like this. Keep calm, Harry, your family is surely looking for you.
The owl. He breathed. Find paper. Harry scrambled to the wardrode next to the cot, throwing it open. There was a neat stack of rolled parchment and a solitary quill pushed just past a layer of old shirts.
If he could just send a letter to someone - he'd be alright. You're fine, Harry.
Shakily, he pulled the string off of one, realizing that they were missives written to him.
"What?" he breathed.
Harry,
Hope everything is all right with you - I wish you'd write more often! Honestly, boys are all the same. Make sure to spend your summer productively this time; seriously, I won't help you out with your transfiguration project last-minute again. (Well, maybe if you ask nicely) ...
Harry skimmed feverishly; none of this made sense. Was there another Harry that lived here?
... Oh! We're sending you treats through the muggle-mail, so make sure not to open any packages in front of your Uncle. Speaking of that, is everything okay with your family? It gave me a bad feeling when I saw how upset he seemed at the train station.
- Hermione
"Hermione... Hermione...," he'd heard that name before, he was sure of it. This couldn't be the same girl who dropped out in first year, right? That would be too much of a coincidence. He rifled through the box, letting out a deep sigh when his fingers clamped around a wand - it couldn't have been his, but it would work well enough. He slipped it into the deep folds of his trouser pocket.
His heart started again when a whirring sound came to life. Scrambling to his feet, he pressed his ear against the hot window - it was the sound of a - a car, right? Slowly the noisy mechanical whir grew quieter. Did that woman leave? Was he alone now? He needed to move quickly.
He tore off a large empty chunk of the letter and scribbled a plea, hopping to his feet despite the loud crunch under him, and finally undoing the latch on the cage. With a calming gesture, he let the owl nip at him before fastening the parchment to her leg. "Get help - find James Potter," he whispered while cracking the window open just enough for her to squeeze through.
Once she flew off, Harry pressed up against the door and pulled it open when he didn't hear anything. Padding out into the hallway, he was struck by just how different it was from the small room. The carpet under his feet was plush and tidy. Unmoving pictures of a tubby blonde boy lined the wall.
Edging out through the hall and down the stairs, Harry let out a sigh of relief. No other footsteps. He was alone. Nothing trilled or buzzed or floated and there were ... what was the word... wall outlets? Everything seemed so muggleish.
He wasted no time in barreling out of the house as quickly as he could, shielding his eyes as the bright hot sun hit him, the world flourishing into a carefully manicured green expanse of grass just beyond the threshold.
His stomach dropped when someone hissed just to his left, "What do you think you're doing out here, freak?"
Harry tumbled backwards, catching himself painfully with his wrists before reaching in his pocket and flourishing the wand with both hands, "Don't - don't touch me!"
Blinking against the sun light, he realized the same pale blonde boy in the photos was staring down at him, eyes wide and fixated on the piece of wood.
The boy's voice was high and shaky. "I know you're not allowed to do that - you'll - you'll get expelled, and I'll tell dad that you're making a scene!"
"Oh, come on, Dudders - you're afraid of a piece of wood?" A taller boy with sharp features punched him lightly on the shoulder.
"Where am I?" Harry demanded, finding his voice and climbing painfully to his feet.
"Y-you're not going to use that on me!" the boy screeched.
"Where am I?"
"Has Potter gone nutters?" the ratlike boy asked, advancing with a menacing smirk.
"How do you know my name?" He gasped out, glancing around before noticing that strangers were peering through their blinds, watching them curiously from their cloistered yards. "Stay away from me."
Harry spilled out onto the sidewalk, his wand still trained on the pair of confused boys, before whirling around to stare at an older woman with bright orange hair curlers approaching from the other side of the street, a gray tabby padding lightly just behind her. "Is everything alright, boys?"
Her brows shot up in concern when she skimmed over him, "Harry!"
He leapt away before she could approach too closely. "Put that thing away," she hissed. "What's going on here?"
"S'nothing, he's just acting like a freak!"
"How do you know me? Do you know my parents?"
She blinked at him, "Harry, you look injured. Why don't you come on over for a cup of tea and a chat?"
He lapsed into a furtive silence, eyes darting wildly to consider the rows and rows of completely similar homes, the uniform patches of grass that seemed to stretch on for miles or at least until the end of the street. There's no way he could trust these strange people who he'd never met before - people who seemed to know him.
Stumbling back when she shuffled closer, he decided to make a mad dart for the road, never once looking back despite the high-pitched buzz of shouts just behind him.
"Harry!"
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
A shutting door. Muted conversation.
"You can't do that to him!"
He must've been evicted from his own mind. The familiar fixture of the floor under his feet dissipated, replaced by some nameless soft surface. Somehow the prickling sensation of something digging in his palms - his nails, he realized later - was replaced by a ceramic mug that radiated a gentle warmth.
Mournful, low tones. "He's gone Lily, he's gone - he's - "
The constant roar in his head dimmed by degrees, until the mellow sensations of rising steam and a soft black throw pillow slipped back into comfortable awareness.
"... right here, James! Your son is right outside this room!"
"Muffliato."
A low, calm buzz, and a familiar drawling voice. "Don't listen to them, Harry."
"I'm sorry," he didn't realize he'd spoken until Severus uncharacteristically dropped to the floor to look directly at him. Even in the dim lighting, he could tell that the man's face was twitching into a pinched frown, fighting against some pained grief.
"You have nothing to be sorry for."