REBEL REBEL
A self-insert named Tommy Hurst wakes up in the Harry Potter world only to realise that something isn't right about Harry himself. Believing he can get back to his world by finding proof, Tommy starts on a journey that could change the world…
CHAPTER ONE: LEAP OF FAITH
0.
IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, I'd just turned sixteen years old, and like many teenagers, I was currently at a house party with a bunch of my closest mates. My friend's parents had gone away for a weekend, and we were currently living it up like we only had one life – music was glaring in the background, way too loud, I knew it would wake the neighbours soon, and we were generally having a whale of a time. People were playing pool, drinking games, and generally trying to imitate the parties that you see in American movies and failing. I was hanging in the corner myself, talking to my best mate. "So, I was thinking, you know about the ending," he said.
"Mate, we're at a party, it's our night off. Try to relax for a change. Not everything has to be about the film," I said. "Just calm, ok?"
"I guess you're right. You know I get a bit anxious about these things," said my friend. His name was Leland, he was a towering, imposing figure, tall enough that had already drawn a few stares. His Dad was rich – not big money – but rich enough to give Leland whatever he wanted in life, and Leland had decided to become a filmmaker after watching a Tarantino movie one time despite the fact so that he was too young to watch it, so a filmmaker Leland was going to become. "It's a big shoot. Hell, it's not even a student film. We're not even technically students yet. But I want to go big, you know. Like the ending of Inglorious Basterds. I'm thinking, we want a massive shootout. The bad guy, he's going to find the good guy on the roof of the house. And they're going to go head to head with other, it's going to be bloody, but the good guy's going to kill the bad guy and then find out that he's not really…"
The music abruptly stopped, whatever was playing in the background died, and confusion began to set in. "Alright, the party's over!" said a loud voice, and I realised it must have been Leland's parents coming back home early from wherever they were going. Marching into the room like they owned the place, and they rightfully did.
"But mum, you said…" Leland protested.
"Not on nights that I'm at home, and not as many kids as this. It's like a playpen. Scram. Go on. Shoo, we don't want you here."
"What about Scott?"
"Scott has to go too," said his mother, "Sorry, but I warned you. The consequences."
Kids had already bolted as soon as Leland's parents had arrived, hastily realising that they were no longer welcome.
"Sorry mate," Leland said. "Look, I'll see you tomorrow, right? Bright and early."
"Yeah," I said, making a beeline for the exit. It was dark something like 12pm, I'd be tired as hell tomorrow and we all would be, I saw the two lead actors snogging each other in the corner of the room, they were there too. Still, I made my way for the exit all the same, not risking to offend Leland's parents, out, across the street in a hurry, knowing that all I had to do was make it three blocks back home to a small semi-detached building that was a lot less nicer than the one that I had just left, when –
I collided with something. A car? It felt painful enough to be a car. I didn't see it, I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts, when I should have been concentrating on the road. All I felt was a sudden jolt of pain, sheer, chaotic pain that I'd never felt anything remotely like before, being a relatively sheltered child, and then…
Nothing. Just nothing. Silence, and that was it. My consciousness faded into nothingness.
I.
It's not every day you dream about Hogwarts. I woke up in the Ravenclaw Common Room at 9:30 in the morning, at least according to the pestering and shoving of the students around me. "Tommy," one of the students was saying, "Are you alright? I heard screaming last night."
"Screaming? No… wait, where am I?"
"You're in the Ravenclaw Common Room, Tommy. You're late for your first class. Snape is going to be mad. You'll get detention for sure. Look, I've already tried calling Professor Flitwick," one of them was saying. Flitwick? Ravenclaw? The names struck me almost instantly, I was dreaming about Hogwarts. And Harry Potter. "Look. We don't have much time. We could probably get you out on a technicality if you wanted to see Madam Pomfrey. Besides, Snape barely notices us ever since Potter, I don't know what he did to earn his hatred but it must have been something bad."
Yes. Definitely Harry Potter. I never remembered dreams being this… vivid before, though, or this many words. I decided to play along, because what's the worst that could happen. "Oh yeah. Um, Crabbe hexed me last night."
"Crabbe?" said the black-haired boy. "Oh no. I'm so sorry. Did it hurt?"
"Yeah," I made up something that sounded like a wince. "Caught me by surprise, I think I'm still recovering. Must have blocked some of my memory, too."
"That could be serious."
"I'm sure it's just a temporary fix. No need to worry Snape, I'll grim and bear the detention," I said, being sure that I'd probably be awake by then so wouldn't have to suffer the consequences. "Hey, what year is it, by the way?"
"Crabbe must have really got you bad. It's 1995."
"1995? Oh wow. Okay. I need to sit down," I said. I wasn't even alive yet in this timeline, this was bad enough as it was.
"What, were you expecting another year?"
"Yeah, let's just say I had a really weird dream last night," I said, realising that this was how I could get away with everything. "I dreamt I was in 2020."
"2020, far out, man," said the boy. "Well, you're in 1995. Hate to break it to you, spaceman."
"Okay… what's my next lesson?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts. And good luck with that, by the way. It's Umbridge. In case you've forgotten.
"Oh," I said, realising something. Oh no. Maybe being in the Harry Potter world wasn't such a good idea after all. I remembered how terrifying Imelda Staunton was as the Professor, who I found in the films to be even scarier than Voldemort himself.
"And you won't want to miss that."
"Thanks. Um, mate?"
"Yeah?"
"The hex is still taking a while to hit in. What's your name?"
"Michael," he said. "Michael Corner."
II.
The first lesson of the day – that I was able to properly attend, was Defence Against the Dark Arts. Snape was undoubtedly mad that I missed his lesson but I could take comfort in the fact that he was likely too busy with Harry Potter – that was my get out clause, for most of the year, I guess. Or at least, most of the dream, which was starting to feel a little longer than the ones that I normally have. As I made my way through to Defence, I was starting to get the sinking feeling that this was in fact, more than it appeared. Michael Corner was definitely a character from the books, I remember him dating Ginny Weasley at some point before Harry – but I didn't know too much about who he really was as a person. Jesus. There was a whole new world to explore – and who was to say I was really in the same world of the books? Fanfiction and all. Who's to say I wasn't in a crossover?
The tell-tale sign of dreaming is something that I learned fairly early on, and that writing and text is virtually non-existent in dreams and makes no sense, but every painting that I walked past had perfectly vivid descriptions of who the subject was. A few were looking at me wondering why I was staring at them, others revelled in the attention, but either way, I had to be ready for Defence, and Umbridge, so I mentally prepared myself for the questions that she'd throw at me. Wracking my brain, I was starting to find new knowledge that wasn't there, a combination of many things. My brain hurt – a mixture of two memories fighting for space. I was Thomas Hurst, Ravenclaw, fifth year. Tommy to his mates, it seemed. And I was Scott Walker, Londoner, part-time founding member of the school's one and only David Bowie cover band in the middle of my secondary school. I was fifteen years old in both universes, it seemed.
I took a seat next to Michael at the back of the class. "In case your memory still hasn't come back," Michael was starting to treat it as a joke at this point and playing along regardless, "Be as discreet as possible. Umbridge doesn't seem like the kindest of teachers."
"Well duh," I said, and curious about something, asked Michael, catching my first glimpse of Harry Potter in the process, the Boy Who Lived, as he entered the room like he owned the place, talking with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who resembled their movie actors almost uncannily. "Don't suppose you know where I could get a radio? Like, a normal one."
"The Weasley Twins have hotwired a normal muggle one to play muggle music. It was more of an experiment to see if they could or not but now most of the muggles want to listen the BBC," Michael said. "Turns out not everyone likes being shut-off from the real world, you know?"
"I get that," I said. "Cool. I'll visit them after the class. Any idea where they are?"
"They'll have Astronomy with the Hufflepuffs."
"Cool," I said.
I was waiting for something big to happen next as the lecture progressed, I knew the first lesson with Umbridge was where Harry would make his outburst, get sentenced to detention and find out about the painful method of teaching that Umbridge would use on his hand that he'd nurse for the whole year. But nothing happened, no grand speech, no grand showdown – Harry just sat silent and tried to blend in with the group as Umbridge rattled on her propaganda. Come on, Harry, I kept urging him all the while. Say something. Please. Anything.
Not once did he shoot a look in my direction. Why should he? He sat there like he was calculating something somehow, like he knew more than he appeared. To the average student it would look like he was just trying to blend in, but even after the speech Umbridge made about Voldemort not existing, Voldemort not coming back, nothing came at all. It was a perfectly ordinary Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, which by all means, shouldn't be possible. "Something's wrong," I said, aloud, after the lesson, to Michael, when we filed out of the room. "Harry Potter. He was meant to have an outburst here. He was meant to say something about Voldemort."
Michael flinched at the name. "You Know Who's not back, Tommy. And why should Harry say something?"
"Because he always does."
"Because he always does, you've got a point. I mean, when was the last first Defence lesson of the year that we had without some kind of drama? I mean, Year Four had the Imperius Curse and Moody, Jesus, he almost makes Umbridge look like a normal teacher in comparison, Year Three had Lupin, Year Two, Lockhart… It's almost refreshing to get something like this for a change. Silence. Hey, look, we've got a break now. Want to go to the Astronomy tower? Maybe your it'll clear your head."
"Yeah, sure. Why not?" I said. "I'm still a bit dizzy. Fresh air could do me good."
III.
The Weasley Twins were waiting underneath the Astronomy Tower, off to the right. Michael showed me a path to their secret storage of what they'd been hoarding to sell on, and it was like walking into a Charity Shop – all random assortments of ready-made prank items to ship off and sell. Financed in part by the winnings from the previous year, they'd already started a lucrative business of their own that they were looking to expand past Hogwarts in their final year. "And look what we have here, Fred!" George Weasley announced as we entered. "Ravenclaws. No, pranks are wasted on you - I didn't think you lot had a sheer creative mind amongst you. What are you lot doing here?"
"Feeling a bit homesick, to be honest," I said.
"Do you want a magical orb? We're working on a name, but we call it the "Home Away from Home". Rated five out of five stars by its users, which admittedly, are both me and Fred so far" said Fred – even though I knew full well that he was Fred, they had tell-tale signs that I was picking up from the books, springing to action in salesman mode: "Three sickles, and you can see your house or any building that you know through the orb. Perfect recreation."
"No, it's not that," I said. " A radio would be great."
"A radio? Muggle or Magical? For an extra five sickles, you can get on for both stations. Unlimited channels. We ugh, only have the BBC at the moment. For ten sickles, it's yours."
"Ten sickles?" I said, fumbling in my pocket, relieved to see that Tommy had been smart enough to leave some coins in his pocket last night. "Bargain. I'll take it."
"We might just have ourselves a loyal customer," said George, glancing across to Fred. "Well done, George. Any time you want to come back, feel free to do so! We need the money."
"Hold on, I want to test it first. I don't want it to explode in my face or something like that…"
"Explode? What do you take us for?" George said. "Tricksters?"
"Pranksters?" Fred followed up.
"Trickster-Pranksters?" George finished. "Go on, I'll even try it for you."
George turned a few dials, and familiar words filtered through the communications link. Words – not music. From my mother, panicking, in distress, "Wake up, Scott, come back to us, please. We need you. We're right here, darling. We hope you're okay…"
I recoiled from the radio like I was struck by lightning. Jesus, what was going on? I had to be dreaming right. "Did you hear that?" I asked, when I could sense them looking at me in alarm. "Did you hear that?"
"Are you alright, kid?" Fred said, looking at me, concerned.
"I mean, even if you don't like him, there's no way David Bowie's that bad," Michael said, a bit worried. "Should we get Madam Pomfrey?"
"That didn't sound like David Bowie to me," I said, as if on cue, the voice had gone, replaced by Cat People. "That sounded like… my mother."
"Your mother?" Michael said. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"No, I'm not sure. That was my mother. She said, Wake up. Wake up, come back to us, please. We need you. We need you, Michael. As though I'm not just dreaming. Maybe, I'm in some kind of coma."
"Maybe you are," Fred said, offhandedly. "Maybe you are, and you've got to do something drastic to wake up."
"Drastic?" I asked Fred.
"Like, I don't know. If you're you and you really are dreaming, you'll wake up. If this world is real then you'll stay in this one. If not…"
"It's a leap of faith," said George, seriously.
"Maybe you're right. Something drastic," I said, looking around, realising where I was, realising what kind of something drastic meant when Fred was talking about it, realising that the only way back from a dream was to provide some kind of kick (I'd seen Inception, too), and wake up on the other side, maybe in some kind of hospital, maybe in my own bed, but out of here, out of a world where Harry Potter might not even be Harry Potter, and the safety of my own home where I was a normal kid doing normal things.
I was on the Astronomy Tower. As in: The Astronomy Tower. The first part didn't matter, it could have been any kind of Tower. What mattered was the fact that it was a Tower, and Hogwarts School being Hogwarts, there were no barriers. All I had to do was take a leap of faith.
No time like the present. I could see no other way out of this dream. I made a beeline for the stairs, ignoring the shocked cries of Michael, Fred and George, and did my best to run up as quickly as I could. "Wait, kid! Come back! We were only-" Fred shouted after me, worry in his voice, I didn't catch his next words, I was too busy running – I wanted to wakeup, I wanted to wake-
"Tommy."
A voice stopped me when I reached the top of the Astronomy Tower. There was enough gap in the normally-closed shutters and enough of a stormy weather so that Michael was having to yell to get my attention. "Tommy!"
I turned around. Michael was standing there. His hair blowing in the wind. The room itself was largely empty, the Astronomy Items stored underneath the floor, by the looks of things. I don't know why the shutters, normally closed in the day, were left open.
"They were joking! It's the Weasley Twins," said Michael. "They didn't think you were serious. What the hell, mate?"
"They were joking?"
"Yeah! They didn't mean anything seriously," said Michael. "Come down, come on, get down from there. It's a long way. You're worrying me. Please."
"It's a long way," I echoed, realising how close to the edge I really was, backing away. "Alright. I'll come down. I'll come down. Don't, don't get Madam Pomfrey. I'm fine. Just a nightmare. The song, it reminded me of something."
"David Bowie?"
I'd caught a bit of it after the voice had stopped, it had been playing as I'd run up the stairs. "Yeah. There's a movie, I mean, my friend watched it. It plays at the end. There's a game in the middle of it, where these characters are pretending to be somebody else. Like, the song doesn't play until the end of the film, but it's in the same film: they have to keep their identities as spies secret from the Nazis in a Basement Tavern. And then in that movie with Charlize Thereon, it's used again. The main character is a double agent, maybe a triple, I wasn't really paying attention by the end."
"So?" We were walking back down the stairs now.
"And in that German show about spies," I added. "Modern Love plays. But don't you get my point. Bowie always plays in movies or shows when there's spies or some kind of imposter."
"Yes, but you're missing a crucial point. The James Bond pictures kind of disapprove that theory. There's no Bowie in any of them and they've made a lot…"
"Yeah, but…" I said, trying to think of a counterpoint to that, couldn't find anything, so resorted to a simple comeback. "Since when did you watch James Bond? I'm just listing examples here, Michael. Roll with me."
"I'm rolling with you."
"So there's a moment, right, in the film," I wanted to avoid mentioning what name it was in case he went down looking for it and realised that it didn't come out yet. "Where the Germans spot the British spy because he makes a simple hand gesture that the Germans don't use, but the British do. The Germans notice it instantly and they realise he's an imposter because they know something the British guy doesn't, because they've lived in Germany all their lives and the imposter hasn't."
I hadn't exactly lived in the Harry Potter universe all my life, but I'd lived and breathed it since I was a kid, I knew the books like the back of my hand, I knew when something was wrong, and although I loathed comparing a Potter situation to something out of a Tarantino movie, something that I'm not normally a fan of, I couldn't think of a better example to illustrate my point: And I wanted to pull a Marty McFly moment on someone from the past if I was sticking around now. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, is that I know this world. I know what works and what doesn't," I said, even though Michael wasn't going to believe me I had to see if I could get the message across somehow, if I could even have somebody on my side, it would help. "And right now, Harry Potter just proved to me, in the space of one hour, by not responding to Umbridge, that he's not Harry Potter. He may look like him. He may talk like him. He may be in Gryffindor like him. But it's not him."
"Come on, mate, that's insane," said Michael. "There's no way…"
"The Boy Who Lived is an imposter," I said, aloud, and not caring what Michael thought of my comment – I realised that if anything had a chance of getting me home, without killing myself, without taking the easy way out, I had to prove that Harry Potter was not Harry Potter. "And I'm going to prove to the world that he's not who he says he is so I can get back home."