Disclaimer: I don't own JK's world.
A/N- yes, its odd, yes I know I should have written a Checkmate chapter instead, no, I don't care.
STORYBOOK HERO
"I'd like to tell you that he's getting better, but I'm not sure yet. He had a hard fight already, and he's not done yet. I'm sorry but, nothing is guaranteed."
She nodded, and looked down at the broken form of Harry Potter lying, twisting on the bed beneath hospital sheets. His unruly black hair tossed over his forehead, hiding the hideous bleeding scar.
Voices were quiet behind them, aware of the tension the group was feeling.
They thought they had won, but now he had to try and wake up.
(-(-(--)-)-)
Harry James Potter, Boy-who-lived walked down the hallways of Hogwarts at the start of his first year, wide-eyed and innocent, trying to find his classes on time. He raced across the Quidditch pitch. He felt the beat of silver wings against his hand. He helped Norbert, hated Snape and defended the school before the Mirror of Erisid.
There, before the mirror, he had been given a chance to win, but he hadn't understood, and so he didn't take it.
He spent the summer wallowing in his own self-pity when none of his new friends wrote him. He was so young and small, and none of his new life really made sense, except for one thing. He wanted to leave the pain of the muggle world and return to the beautiful world of witches and wizards, of that pretty world where he was famous and loved.
In his second year he discovered he could speak to snakes, grew stronger, met Ginny, fought with Tom beneath the school, and then, like some storybook hero, he destroyed diary, snake, and memory, nearly dying himself. It was so wonderful, even though he would never say it to his new friends. Modesty aside, he loved that warm little feeling in his stomach when he saved someone.
But, afterwards there was always that sick feeling, that recoil from things going so great.
Sometimes he heard voices he couldn't identify. Sometimes he lost his grip on reality and started to have strange dreams. He always went back to Hogwarts before he lost it altogether.
Smiling—Beaming—Harry went into his third year, desperate anticipation evident in his attitude. That year, even though it should have been horrible, was incredible. Each horrid little thing seemed like it's own chapter in this beautiful book he was writing. His life was amazing, an epic of Tolkien Proportions, and he knew that no story was worth anything without suffering to serve as a foil to the joy.
His favorite thing was imagining some inner angst blown out of proportion until it could explode, publicly. Then everyone would look to him and smile at how impressive he was to keep going through so much.
He was a wonder.
His fourth year scared him though. He almost lost grip entirely, and Tom's voice kept telling him to join. Part of him wanted to. Tom was happy, maybe Harry would be happy there too. There was plenty of opportunity to be in some horrid situation which he could triumphantly overcome.
Every time Tom talked to him though, Harry felt like he was leaving himself to go into another, darker place.
Maybe there people didn't recognize him. Maybe there he wasn't famous.
Harry would shudder and think about something else.
Fifth year was even worse, something was ripping at him, trying to pull him out of his happiness. Here he was happy. He was hunted, yes, and in danger, but he was happy. He just knew that one day he would lead that mighty charge and win, he would be a hero, a knight in shining armor, a savior—better, a martyr. It would be beautiful and everyone would always remember him. Every man, woman and child would know his name and revere his memory.
He would be something of legend, and it would be beautiful.
That last fight though, it wasn't right.
Tom stood opposite him, trying as ever to coax him to the darker side of life. Harry, as ever, considered it, and rejected it, like he had every time before. He wanted to be the hero, not the follower. Beautiful, strong, and passionate, he would triumph, dying dramatically even as he defeated his opponent. His friends never saw what was in his mind; they thought that he was great.
He had arranged for Rita to watch the Final Battle, so that it could be recorded in posterity forever. She would make him look even more fantastic than he already was. It would be beautiful.
Like a storybook hero.
That last fight though, it wasn't right.
Harry whimpered under the pain of the Cruciatus.
No, it wasn't pain.
It was the same feeling that had plagued him for years, now. That feeling he was being pulled away. A portkey to another world, another dimension. Sometimes it was easier to fight that pull. Today it was harder. Tom would speak and it would become exponentially harder to stay. He had heard the stories about Neville's parents. Driven insane by the Cruciatus. They were in some other place now.
The same place that Tom was trying to push him to.
Voices.
Voices in his head that whispered and coaxed him, begging him to join them. They sounded familiar but he wasn't sure why. They seemed loving. His parents? No, they were dead. It couldn't be.
Unless he was moving towards death.
That was possible. It would be beautiful. Oh, if only Rita knew what he was thinking. He would die perfectly.
First though, he had to destroy Tom, he had to destroy the man who was pushing him out of the Happy World. Tom had always been jealous of the green-eyed white knight, and wanted him dead. The knight wouldn't die without a fight though. He would win too. Of course he would. He was Harry James Potter, the boy-who-lived. This was his world. He was the master of the domain. He couldn't lose. It was his. It was HIS domain.
So why was it so hard to keep his mind in the fight.
He wanted to flee to that warm places where the voices were coming from. It didn't matter where they were. He wanted to go to—
NO! He was here.
He was the Boy-Who-Lived.
He was Harry Potter, wizard, savior, knight, mage, oddity, he was unique, a celebrity, he was famous, everyone knew him, everyone loved him.
He couldn't leave that warm feeling behind in that soft world where they like him. He Liked being Liked. He did, really. He just wanted to be liked, he wanted to be cherished, treasured.
Not like with his parents, not like with them. They left him behind, and that was when it had all started, that was when the pain started, that was when the beauty started.
Tom was talking again, begging him now in a soft voice, the voice of a woman, to come home, to just come home, to come back to them.
He didn't understand. Come back to where? He was here, this was his home. Here where he was loved, where he was a Storybook Hero.
Where even pain seemed right.
Here, he was at home.
Tom wouldn't stop though. A dreadful coolness began to permeate his body, first his extremities then further in, slowly slowly slowly reaching for his mind.
He knew that if it got there he would be gone, he would go to where his parents were.
But wasn't that good? He wanted to see his parents, didn't he? DIDN'T HE?
His mind was letting go.
No, he wouldn't let it. He would win.
He was going to beat Tom, and go back and be hailed by the world as a hero, a StoryBook Hero.
Tom was talking.
Let go, he said, let go, come home.
Harry was home though, it didn't make any sense. Tears were streaming down his cheeks now, he wanted to stay here where everyone loved him.
STORYBOOK HERO!
Tom was walking towards him now, hand outreached, trying to touch him.
Harry screamed and scrambled backwards in agony, blissful beautiful agony. He would overcome the agony and go back to be worshipped by his friends. They loved him. It would be amazing.
His scream was an infinity of loss and suffering compressed into a single voice. He lashed out one last time.
The world went absolutely black as he lost his grip on the world for the last time.
(-(-(--)-)-)
"I can't believe it! He's waking up! Get the nurse! Someone go get the nurse!" The voices were around him again, closer, kinder, painless. Nothing slipped when he heard them. The bed was warm beneath him.
Wait, why was he in a bed, and why were they getting the nurse?
"Harry? Harry come back to us. You're almost here. Come back." He carefully opened his eyes and saw his parents standing at the base of the bed, crying for some unknown joy.
He tried to greet them, but nothing came out of his mouth.
"Oh, no Harry, no, don't try to talk, you aren't used to it. We'll talk for now." Lily sat down on the bed, James behind her, and after a few moments Harry found his weak body engulfed in a crushing hug. "Congratulations Harry, you won, you finally won."
(-(-(--)-)-)
MONA GOODMAN PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL (RELEASE ORDERS)
Patient: HARRY JAMES POTTER
DOB: 7.30.86
Ward: Harrison Murphy
Date of Entry: 8.15.97
Date of Departure: 6.16.04
Original Reason for Entry: Car Crash
Reason for Release: Full Recovery
Special Notes: Patient has created an entire world revolving around himself, undoubtedly caused by the absence of his parents during his youth. From his mumbling, it has been discerned that he believes himself a wizard, a highly important one, he has created a villain, casting himself as the hero. The idea of a hero was likely derived from his earlier obsession with fantasy books and fairy tales. He managed to, over time, scratch a jagged lightning bolt on his forehead, which none of the nurses could reach. Over six and a half years he went through regular phases of health before returning to his common state. At times he was catatonic, then in a near coma, and at others would reenact entire battles and conversations. Seems to consider himself a martyr of his created world. Parents were extremely successful in their final attempt. They spent the last year listening to and analyzing his world, and when they considered themselves fluent in the language of his world, went as far as dressing up as the characters he had spoken of, then rewrote his storybook ending. It was extremely successful.
A final note; the boy's first words upon regaining his ability to speak were "It was such a pretty world."
Dr. Thomas Riddle
(-(-(--)-)-)
A/N- told you it was weird. Hope you liked it. If you want to confirm what you think happened, tell me your idea, and I'll let you know.
-Phoenix Sworn