Seeing Double
By: Red, the Feathery
Chapter Three – Running Around in Circles
*
They floo-ed back to the redheads' house—Harry had really never liked Floo Powder. It gave him a dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach, making him want to hurl incessantly. He coughed when he landed on the wooden floor of a living room. "You look rather like a chimney sweep," said one of the twins who had already arrived. Truth be so, he felt like a chimney sweep. He didn't reply to the spoken opinion. He didn't think he had to.
The first thing he could tell was that the redheads' must've not been very rich. The house was practically in shambles! The staircase was huge, looking as though it went on for miles, although it was cracked and looked as if it was being held up by magic. Chips and cracks graced some windows; Harry assumed it was very cold here in the winter. The furniture was groaning, needing to be polished and re-done. All in all, Harry was not impressed with this family. The one of them cornered him at Quidditch Supplies and starting calling him a ridiculous name, then he didn't know who Tredo Malfoy was, and now all of them brought him here—to this dump. Sirius would've frowned on them, also.
Something on his face must've given himself away, as the Weasleys' were all looking at him peculiarly. As though he had just criticized their house out loud. The mother of the redheads went into an adjoining room, leaving him alone with four people he didn't know. He suddenly felt very nervous. The girl with the mermaid-hair must've noticed it, for she was the first to speak. "You have no idea who we are, do you?"
"Sorry," Harry replied. He didn't know why, but he felt he should apologize. They obviously knew who he was, but not vice versa. The tall, freckled boy looked incredulous, then angry, then upset. "Well then, we'll just have to change that, won't we?" the girl said. "I'm Ginny."
"Gred," said one twin.
"Forge," said the other.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" cried Ginny. "That's Fred and that's George."
"C'mon Ginny, that's no fun!" they said at the same time.
"Who're you, then?" Harry acknowledged the tall, freckled one who had first found him. The boy, in reply, raised his eyebrows. He spoke in a voice so quiet, Harry had to strain himself to hear him.
"Ron." Harry caught a slight quirk in his voice; something to the effect that Ron thought he would recognize this name. Harry didn't know why he would think this. "Oh," he said, and added lamely, "Right."
The aged living room was met with uncomfortable silence. No one seemed to want to speak to anyone. Not a sound echoed throughout the entire home that is except for a loud banging above Harry's head that annoyed the hell out of him. After a few more minutes of the crashing, Harry couldn't stand it anymore. "What the hell is that!" he demanded of them. Ginny smiled.
"It's a Ghoul. He lives in our attic and makes noise when he thinks it's too quiet."
"That is really annoying."
"Tell me about it," said Fred.
"And mum said we're annoying," George added.
"But you are annoying." Harry shot back.
"We're okay with that." Harry rolled his eyes. Twins and their goddamned ESP.
Silence ensued once more. This time Mrs. Weasley more shortly interrupted it, bustling into the room, telling her children to go upstairs. "Harry," she said as he began to follow them. "You have a visitor in the kitchen."
It better be Sirius, was Harry's only thought as he changed direction, now headed towards the kitchen. "You've grown," said Mrs. Weasley. "You know that, right?"
"I've been this height since I was thirteen."
"Well, okay, then," said Mrs. Weasley uncertainly. She looked upon Harry with worry… and what was that? Regret? Suffice to say, Harry was now even more confused. But he followed anyway.
Sitting at the kitchen table was the oldest man Harry had ever seen. He wore violent robes, imprinted with golden stars and moons. Protected by half-moon spectacles were two startlingly sparkly azure eyes. Gray hair wound its way down to the elder's belt. "Hello, Harry," said the man easily. Harry stared, not even bothering to tell the man that he wasn't Harry. "Hello," he said back warily. He didn't know this man, nor did he trust him. He took a cagey seat at the table at the older man's gesture.
"Mrs. Weasley, here, has informed me that you've been acting peculiarly. And with the recent rise of the Dark Lord, I'm worried for you." Harry nearly let his jaw drop in shock.
"Recent?! The Dark Lord had been in reign since I was just a child! He killed my father!"
The older man arched a brow, a look of surprise imposing on his face. Mrs. Weasley, the mother, he supposed, joined them at the table. "Harry," she spoke, "do you have any idea what you're talking about?"
Harry defiantly raised his head. Who were these people to tell him that he was stupid, out of his mind, a nutter, in other words? "Of course I do!" If it had been anyone else—like Sirius—Harry would've stood up and left just then. But the fact was, it wasn't Sirius. He was in a room, full of strange people that he'd never once seen before. He didn't know what to do, Sirius was nowhere to be found and these people clearly didn't know that he wasn't 'Harry'. He was almost scared. "I think it's you that is mistaken, sir," he said, more nastily then he meant.
"Harry—"
"No."
The elderly man widened his blue eyes, which were now without sparkle. When Harry didn't reply, the man said, "No what?"
"This Harry," he replied, "I'm not him."
"Then who are you?" The man showed him a hint of a smile. Harry was for a moment without answer.
"Who are you?" It wasn't an entirely bad answer Harry decided. After all, he really didn't know this man. To his vast surprise, the man smiled. "I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now, young man—" Dumbledore smiled at him. "—it is your turn to answer my question."
Harry opened his mouth to tell this man exactly what he wanted to hear, but shut his mouth quickly, deciding against it. "I'm not sure I can trust you," he said. "'Matter of fact, I'm not sure I can trust any of you."
"Well," said Dumbledore lightly, "if you are Harry, then something has certainly changed you."
"But I'm not Harry."
"That excuse is going to get you nowhere until you tell us who you are." Dumbledore smiled evenly again.
"And so we continue to run around in circles, for you know my answer to that already." It was Harry's turn smile. He stretched back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. He could almost see old Dumbledore's frustration. Mrs. Weasley frowned and stood up from the table. She walked over to the stove and started to boil some water. "What are you doing?" asked Harry.
"I'm making tea, I always do when someone's upset."
Harry was about to ask, "Who's upset?" but stopped himself when he realized it was Mrs. Weasley that was upset. Instead, he nodded. He then turned to Dumbledore and asked, "So, Professor, do you need anything else from me, or can I go?" The old man sighed and gave him silent permission to leave.
* * *
Mrs. Molly Weasley watched Harry exit the room, maternal instincts taking over her. What was wrong with him? Why was he acting the way he was? She thought Dumbledore could get the information out of him, but was again mistaken. Harry and Dumbledore had simply played mind games with each other. Molly jumped as a few drops of boiling water jumped out of the pot and hit her finger. She had been so occupied thinking about Harry, she had forgot about the tea she was making and the visitor at the table.
A few minutes later, Molly and Dumbledore were seated at the table, a cup of tea in front of each of them. "I told you he was acting oddly, Professor."
"Please, Molly, none of this 'Professor' business, just call me Albus. And yes, Harry's behavior is indeed strange." The two sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes.
"Albus, do you think there's any way You-Know-Who could have done something to Harry?" Molly asked, walking to the kitchen cabinet and pulling out some crackers. However, when she offered some to Albus, he politely refused, insisting he had had a big lunch. "It's a definite possibility," he then stated in response to her question. "But I feel quite certain he was well protected at the Dursleys. Despite the fact the are his blood relatives, I have set up special wards at his home this summer, making it nearly impossible for any one wanting to harm him to enter the house."
"Then what do you suppose did happen?" asked Molly.
"I, for not the first time," he replied, eyes twinkling, "not a clue. I'm going to have to say he obviously has lost his memory somehow."
"But, then, how did he end up in Diagon Alley, in his favorite shop, looking at Quidditch items?"
"That, my dear Weasley, is an incredibly good point. I believe, now, I am as perplexed as Harry is—" Dumbledore chuckled. "—However, give me some time to think and research on the matter. If you wouldn't mind keeping him here, that is. If it's needed, I can take him with me. I don't want you or your family to be inconvenienced by this problem."
"Do not worry about that, Albus; Harry has always been perfectly welcome in this home. That won't change because he lost his memory, the poor dear."
Albus did not remain long after that. He and Molly said their good-byes and well wishes, then he was off.
* * *
Harry followed Ron Weasley up the umpteenth set of stairs. How many stories does this house have, anyway? He wondered idly. They passed room after room after room. Harry read the plagues on the doors as he passed--Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George, Parents, Ginny, and then, finally, Ron. Of course Ron's room would be at the very top of the house, thought Harry. Why couldn't Ron have been named Bill? At least his room was on the second floor, not the fifth.
"Come on in," said Ron, opening the door. Harry's first reaction was to cover his eyes, because everything in the room was orange. Suffice to say, Harry hated the color orange, but he didn't say anything of it. He was, after all, a guest in this house and Sirius wouldn't like it if he made a bad impression. Harry learned next that Ron was a Chudley Cannons fan, which explained most of the orange—orange was the Cannons color. Harry, himself, liked the Scottish Quidditch team, the Sydian Snakes, but that was another matter. Clothes of every type were spread around the room, and an open trunk full of parchment and books was open at the end of the bed. Stacks of comic books were piled high in the far corner. Harry tried to look like all of this was familiar to him, but that didn't stop the uncomfortable silence between him and Ron.
"So, Harry, what do you want to do? Hermione won't be arriving till Monday, so we've got the whole weekend to ourselves."
"Hermione? Who's that?" Harry asked. Ron's jaw dropped and his face paled.
"Er—" he said uncomfortably, "Hermione's our friend, mate. You've known her since first year."
"Oh," said Harry, feeling stupid. "Right. I thought you said He-monie."
Ron smiled sadly. "No you didn't. You know perfectly well what I said, Harry." Harry could do nothing but look down at the bed he was sitting on, feeling incredulously guilty. "What's the matter with you, man? I mean, I know you went through a lot last year, but isn't this a bit much?"
"'Sorry," said Harry. He couldn't help the culpability that was creeping into his stomach like a snake into its hole. He knew it wasn't his fault that he didn't know all of the things Ron wanted him to, but he felt like should know them. "That doesn't answer my question, Harry," Ron said. "What's wrong?"
"That's just it."
"That's just what?"
"I'm not Harry. I'm not who you think I am. I may look like him, but I'm not. I'm sorry." Ron looked away and they were both silent. Ron didn't seem to believe him. Harry wondered for a second if Mrs. Weasley told Ron something about him that wasn't true. Something like "he's lost his memory." Because that wasn't true--Harry remembered his life perfectly well. "Harry, you don't have to remember everything at once. Just don't worry about it," said Ron after a few moments. "You can't escape Voldemort every time."
"Who's Voldemort?"
"Oi," said Ron, smiling, "you really don't remember anything." He reached forward and tapped the scar on Harry's forehead. "Voldemort's the one who gave you this. He killed your father and then your mother gave herself up for you. Voldemort then tried to killed you, but your mother's love protected you and you walked away with just this scar. That's why you're famous."
"I'm famous?"
"Yes," said Ron with a laugh. Harry didn't see what was funny about this situation.
"That's not true," he said. "That never happened." Ron wasn't laughing anymore. "I've had this scar ever since the moment I was born. Sure, people recognize me and say I look exactly like my father looked, but I'm not famous."
"Oh," said Ron, pausing in thought. "So, tell me, Harry, how is it you can remember that, but you can't remember your history with Voldemort?"
"It's harder than it looks," he replied.
"What is?"
"Remembering something you never knew in the first place." Ron banged his head on the desk in what seemed to be an attempt to be funny. He continued to do it several times. Then, "Harry you're confusing the shit out of me."
"I'm confusing the shit out of you? I believe it's the other way around."
"I don't know, man," said Ron, "it's like you've lived an entirely different life this summer. Will you tell me everything about it?"
"No," said Harry, "I can't—not yet. I just don't know you well enough."
"You've known me since you were eleven! Tell me, Harry!"
"And we continue to run around in circles."
"Huh?"
***
A/N: Augh… I wanted 'Harry' to tell the Weasley's more about himself, but he's just not willing!! -_- It doesn't matter, anyway, this fic is an attempt to get my confidence in my writing back. I'm determined to finish it no matter what. And while I'm working on a couple of other things, I'm not going to post them until this fic is finished and done with. That way I can't get distracted or something… Oh, and btw, if anyone wants beta-read or edit for me, I'd appreciate it. ^_^
Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter and Co. then… well, lots of things would be different.
