Title: Reminiscence
Rating: T/PG-13
Chapter WC: 8,453
Story WC: 15,485
First Written: September 22, 2010
Last Edited: May 16, 2011
Posted: March 20, 2011
Summary: They said the memory loss was only a temporary side effect of the magically-induced sleep. They didn't say anything about the other memories that were surfacing, the ones that told of a different time and place where the war was already over, and Voldemort dead by his hand. [AU, no pairings.]
Parallel: Harry Potter
Chapter 5
Reminiscence
"Truth is arrived at by the painstaking process of eliminating the untrue. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
–Sherlock Holmes
When he awoke it was pitch black.
He shivered. He was lying on a bed with a thin sheet covering him. As he sat up it pooled around his waist, leaving his bandaged torso exposed to the cold night air. There was a white curtain set up around the bed, blocking his view from the rest of the room. He shivered again. Where was he? How had he gotten here?
He pulled lightly at the bandages wrapped around his chest, but found only unmarked skin beneath. He frowned and rolled his shoulders, feeling no pain, no ache. Leaving the bandages alone, he swung his legs off the bed so that he was sitting on the edge and tried to remember how he had gotten there. His frown deepened. He couldn't remember what had happened—
His eyes widened abruptly. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything. Not what had happened, not where he was, not who he was. The shiver that ran across his skin this time was from a very different source.
A swift hand pulled the curtains in front of Harry. Before he even realized what he was doing, he'd rolled across the bed and was crouching behind it. He stilled from sheer surprise at his own actions, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at the woman who'd approached him. She looked more shocked than him, if that was even possible.
An instant passed before the woman straightened, a scolding expression coming onto her face. "Mr. Potter!" she said sharply. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be out of bed, especially at this time of the night."
He found himself muttering an apology automatically. He frowned at the action, but didn't move from where he was crouched. He glanced down at his hand a noticed his wand was gripped tightly there, instead of on the bedside table. His frown deepened. Wand?
He looked up at the woman, relaxing and finally allowing his confusion to show.
"Who are you?"
The woman's stern look melted away into concern. "Mr. Potter?"
Potter. She kept on saying that. His name? Yeah, Potter. Harry Potter.
"Harry Potter," he murmured aloud. He repeated it again, satisfied that it sounded familiar
"Oh dear." He looked up sharply. The woman's hand was covering her mouth, but it wasn't enough to hide the faint grimace on her face. "Mr. Potter, do you know where you are?" she asked carefully.
He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. The woman sighed, her hand dropping to her side. She pulled the curtains back further and gestured for him to sit on the bed. Still cautious, he did so.
"Don't be afraid," she said reassuringly. "Temporary memory loss is known side effect of magically-induced sleep. It's quite rare, but not unheard of." She drew her wand, summoning a pitcher. After pouring a cup of water and handing it to him, she sat down in the chair next to the bed with a sigh. "Your name is Harry Potter, as you seem to be aware. I am Madame Pomfrey, the resident Healer, and you're in the hospital wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
He took a slow sip of the water, using the cup to mask his increasing confusion. Somehow it felt like he should be surprised by the mention of magic, even though he wasn't. He gripped his wand tighter.
"I see. And why am I here?" The bandages went unmentioned.
Madame Pomfrey hesitated. "...Your memories will return in bits and pieces over the next few days," she said instead. "I'll warn you though—there's a chance that it will take weeks. I'm sure you'll be fine though; you've always been astonishingly resilient."
Saying nothing, he stared down into the metal cup. He could see a scratch on the bottom through the water. He swished the water around, willing for the mark to disappear, but it didn't.
"Well at least try to sleep, Mr. Potter. Professor Dumbledore will stop by in the morning," the Healer said. He still didn't reply and he didn't look up as she pulled the curtains close and bustled off.
Only once a still silence had settled over the hospital wing did he tear his gaze from the cup and let his head fall back against the headboard with a soft sigh. "Harry Potter," he murmured again. "I am...Harry Potter."
Harry could hear soft voices murmuring from the far corner of the hospital wing. He sat tense in his bed, eyes blood shot from lack of sleep. It was hard to rest, to close your eyes and fall into such a vulnerable state, when you were in unfamiliar territory. He was still gripping his wand, unwilling to let it go. If things got dangerous, then he'd need it to make a quick getaway.
He wondered why he was such a paranoid person.
The voices were getting louder now, and making their way towards him. The woman was saying something about heart monitoring charms waking her while a man "hmm"-ed along. They stopped before his bed and Harry tensed, waiting. He was not kept in suspense for long; a moment later Madame Pomfrey peered around the curtain.
"Mr. Potter?" she said when she saw that he was already awake. "Professor Dumbledore is here to speak with you."
Harry stared up at Dumbledore as Madame Pomfrey pulled the curtain all the way back, before moving off to take care of something else. There was something sharp in the man's eyes that set Harry's teeth on edge and made him pull his wand closer to his side. But there was also undeniable warmth there, along with sincere concern.
"I hear you're having a few memory troubles, my boy," Dumbledore said with surprising cheer. "I'm afraid that's one of the risks of dreamless sleep potions. Not to worry though; I'm sure you'll be all sorted out in due time."
Titling his head to the side, Harry refused to break eye contact. "So you won't tell me why I'm here either?"
Dumbledore smiled benignly. "I could do that, but I fear that my words would twist your perception of the events. You will remember soon enough on your own regardless. And I'm quite sure that you have more to tell me about it than I have to tell you!" His eyes continued twinkling, but his smile fell a bit. "Perhaps it is for the best that your memories have...delayed. Witnessing Voldemort's return must have put quite a bit of stress on your mind."
"Voldemort..." Harry frowned at the name. It evoked no emotions within him, although from the sad look on Dumbledore's face, it should have. He wondered if this "Voldemort" was the cause of his stay in the infirmary. He sighed after a moment and banished the thought. "So what am I supposed to do until my memory supposedly returns? Just sit here?"
Chuckling, Dumbledore shook his head. "The end of the year is upon us. You will be returning home in just a few days," he said.
At that moment, the doors to the hospital wing burst open and two children hurried inside. Although Harry tensed, Dumbledore just laughed again, smiling as the two quickly approached.
"Harry, mate!" the boy greeted with a wide grin. "Has Madame Pomfrey released you yet?"
The girl smacked the redhead on the arm. "Honestly Ron! He just woke up!" she scolded him. "Sorry, Harry, we know you've only been in the hospital wing for two days, but since Sirius already left..."
Harry stared blankly at them. His gaze shifted to Dumbledore, while the two children traded confused looks.
Dumbledore coughed. "Ah, forgive me. Harry, this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, your two best friends," he said. He glanced at the children. "I am afraid that Harry has suffered a memory mishap as a side effect of the dreamless sleep potion. It will wear off over the coming week, but until then you will have to help him out." The elder man stood, his bright robes sweeping around him. He nodded at them, smiling, before taking his leave.
The children were left staring at Harry. The girl looked faintly curious, he noticed, but the boy looked absolutely horrified.
"Blimey, mate!" Ron whispered. "That's—"
They fell into any uneasy silence. Harry stared at them, curious as to their unsettled reaction. "So," he said after a moment, "Friends?"
A pale haired teenage girl laughed, her arm linked around his. She pointed to something in the distance and began say—
The girl offered him a smile. "Yes, we have known each other since our first year," she agreed.
Harry frowned. "How did we meet though? You seem a fair bit younger than me."
The smile was instantly wiped away and replaced with a concerned look. The boy just laughed. "Wow, that potion must have really done a number on you!" he said. "See? This is why you never trust potions. Just how old do you think you are?"
The girl rolled her eyes at his words, but Harry's confusion didn't lift. "I..." He paused. "I don't know." He looked away, focusing on the sheets bunched up beneath his tense grip.
"See?" The boy grinned. "You're the same age as us. Harry James Potter, born July 31st, 1980." He glanced at the girl. "This won't be so hard!"
Sighing, the girl gave Harry an apologetic smile. "Would you like to go get some food?" she asked, and then promptly blushed. "Oh! Well, considering the circumstances, I suppose that's not the best proposal. Would you prefer if we went and got something for you instead? Term has already ended, so we can spend our time here."
"Unless Madam Pomfrey kicks us out," the boy snorted.
"We can answer whatever questions you may have," Hermione continued. "Would you like for us to bring your anything?"
"Yes. Thank you."
She gave him a smile, and he found himself smiling back. Ron was grinning ear to ear next to them and rocking back and forth on his heels. And for a moment, Harry could really feel the friendship he was supposed to have with them.
The moment they left, the smile dropped.
Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger him. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. But what he found the most odd was that his friends took it as a matter of course, as though they were used to dealing with such actions. He found it almost as odd that he didn't mind the stares either. He ignored them with due ease, entirely unmindful of their actions.
The castle was familiar, at least. He could remember its halls now. He could remember the moving stairs and the dancing suits of armor and the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor. He could remember taking classes and running down the halls at midnight and laying by the lake on sunny days. But the people were still fuzzy, and specific memories were even worse. It was coming back in bits and pieces, like fragments of notes. But it was happening slowly—much too slowly.
"My mom asked Dumbledore if you could come straight to us this summer," Ron said at one point. "But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at least at first."
"The Dursleys?"
"Your relatives."
Harry frowned. His relatives? The Dursleys? The name sounded...odd...to him, for a reason he couldn't place.
Red hair flashed before his vision, tickling his face. "Mum!" he whined. She laughed as he lifted his hands up to push it away, fingertips grazing against a half-hidden wand.
"I live with them?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably at the pure sensation of wrongness. "Not my parents?"
Ron gave him an odd look. "Er, sorry, Harry. Your parents...died...when you were a baby."
"...Huh. Who'd have thought."
"Harry!" Hermione said as she came down the stairs from the boy's dormitory. "I just finished packing your trunk, to make sure that you don't miss anything. Do you have anything else that's not in your room?"
Harry stared at her. She'd...gone through his things? Her? A complete stranger? He felt tense at the very thought.
Hermione tapped her fingers against her thigh impatiently. "Nothing? Are you sure you didn't leave any books out? Well—I suppose you wouldn't remember that, but you have been reading more than usual over the past few days. No matter! Ron and I will take a last look around, won't we?" Ron opened his mouth to interrupt, but she just continued on, oblivious. "Dumbledore says you'll have to stay with your relatives at first, in case you didn't know. Oh Harry, I wish you didn't have to go back there. You must come to the Burrow as soon as you can."
"Right," Harry said awkwardly, feeling overwhelmed by her straight forward attitude. "Is there anything I should know about them?"
Hermione pulled up short, blinking in surprise. She and Ron briefly exchanged glances. "Well..." she said slowly, "They don't like magic much."
Ron snorted. "Hate it is more like it. Especially after what the twins did when we picked you up last summer," he said.
Giving him a curious glance, Harry inquired, "The twins?"
"My brothers, remember?" Ron replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "They like to prank people—never trust them."
"...I'll try to keep that in mind."
"Oh don't mind him, Harry. Fred and George are just fine, and so are the rest of the Weasleys. You'll remember soon enough. Your memory is already starting to come back, right?"
Harry shrugged noncommittally. It was true, but there was still something that felt...off. Like he was looking at the world through a mirror. But surely that sensation would fade as his memories returned—he wasn't sure what he would do if it didn't.
There was a clattering on one of the common room windows. Hermione made an exclamation of surprise and quickly strode over to it and open it. A snowy white owl fluttered inside and settled on her arm. Hermione positively beamed as she brought the owl back over to them.
"Looks like Hedwig finally came to see you. She's your owl," she added.
Although Hermione stretched her arm out towards Harry, the owl merely cocked her head to side, staring at Harry. There was a pregnant silence for a moment before the owl suddenly surged forward with a deafening screech and Harry's vision was filled with beating wings and scratching claws. He dove out of the way while his friends shouted out in surprise. He could hear someone yelling his name, but he was too busy trying to ward off the enraged owl to reply.
After what seemed like forever, the owl was finally shooed away, leaving Harry scratched and panting. It landed on the back of chair on the other side of the common ruffling its feathers and looking annoyed.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Harry growled.
"I don't understand why Hedwig would act like that," Hermione said, aghast. There was a long moment of silence following her words.
"Maybe she can sense that Harry's memories are all wonky?" Ron suggested as he shifted uncomfortably.
The young witch hummed under her breath, but didn't reply.
"Well, let's go to dinner, yeah?" Ron continued, being rather obvious in his desire to switch topics. "I'm sure Hedwig will have calmed down by tomorrow."
Dinner, of course, meant being amongst all the other children who whispered and stared at him. Few of them tried to hide their curiosity, and most stared openly. It was altogether an uncomfortable affair and Harry pretended he couldn't hear the things they were saying.
The noise fell away abruptly when Dumbledore stood up at the staff table. He launched into a very grave, and for many of the children, very horrifying speech about a student who had died—died!—and how Voldemort had returned. Harry kept his eyes riveted on the man the entire time, drinking in every word. When Dumbledore finished there was a heavy weight in Harry's stomach as he asked himself over and over again why he still couldn't remember anything—and if he even wanted to.
Hermione was also hesitant. "Do you still not remember anything concrete?"
Shrugging, Harry replied, "I remember little things. Mostly about the castle. And occasionally I'll see someone in the hall and recognize them. But that's mainly just knowledge. Actually memories of what I've done in the past... They're like mist, never quite solid."
Ron said something from his other side, but the food stuffed into his mouth obscured the words. Hermione huffed loudly and began to berate him. Harry just smothered a smile. The two of them seemed to be very close. Had Hermione ever scolded him like that? He tried to recall such a memory, but just as he had told Hermione, it didn't come.
"You, on the other hand, haven't eaten anything yet!" Hermione exclaimed. She picked up a goblet and passed it to him. "Have this, at least."
Harry murmured thanks as he accepted the goblet, then cast a quick poison detection charm before taking a sip. It was sweet and sent warmth spreading through his chest.
"What was that?" Hermione asked curiously. Harry glanced up. "That spell you just did."
Harry opened his mouth to tell her, and then stopped suddenly. Why had he cast the charm? He was in a school—there was no reason to expect his drink to be poisoned. But he hadn't thought about it as he cast it. It had been natural to do so—habitual, even.
He gurgled and clawed at his throat as it burned and twisted. Someone was yelling at him and shoving a flask into his mouth. Strong hands pried his jaw apart and he gulped down the thick, cool liquid as fast as he could—
"Harry? Are you alright?"
He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded to Hermione in response, but didn't try to crack a smile.
Ron and Hermione left him alone for the rest of the meal, conversing in soft but tense tones. They tried to draw him in every now and then, but gave up when he only nodded at whatever they said.
The next morning passed by in a flurry of running children and clunking trunks as everyone tried to get down to the platform as quickly as possible. For his part, Harry was dreading the trip. Spending summer with a group of people he didn't know, and who apparently didn't like him very much, did not sounds like his idea of a good time. But ultimately, he didn't have any choice in the matter.
On their way down to the train—after having skipped breakfast, of course—Harry and his two friends were accosted by three Slytherin students. The first of them was a blond boy who looked to be the same age as Harry, while the other two were large, stocky boys. They looked like thugs.
"Malfoy," Ron growled hostilely. "What do you want?"
The blond haired boy smirked arrogantly. "You picked the losing side Potty," he mocked. "I warned you! I told you that you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we first met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!" He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione.
Malfoy's voice set Harry's teeth on edge. There was something about him that Harry sincerely hated, and it wasn't just due to the insults. Without thinking, Harry flicked his wand and muttered a spell. Instantly, the floor beneath his feet began to bubble and melt, as though acid had been poured onto it. Malfoy scrambled back with a rather high pitched squeal, but not before his shoes began to smoke as well.
"Leave, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice soft and dangerous. Malfoy stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. There was a hint of fear in there as well. Hiding his satisfaction, Harry lifted his wand again menacingly, silently threatening the younger boy. Usually he didn't like cursing children, but this was a completely different case.
"You can't threaten me, Potter! The Dark Lord's back and he'll go after you first!" Malfoy barked. But that fear was still there and he was backing up, pulling the other Slytherin boys with him. A moment later they left, disappearing around a corner.
"Blimey, Harry, that was great!" Ron laughed gleefully. "Did you see the look on that ponce's face!"
Hermione wasn't laughing, or even smiling. She was staring at the burned, half melted stone before them. "Harry..." she said slowly, "What was that spell?"
"Liquefaction charm," Harry replied with a shrug.
"But where did you learn it? That's clearly not a part of our curriculum."
"Oh lay off, Mione!" said Ron. "He probably came across while preparing for the Third Task, didn't you Harry?"
"Third Task?" Harry repeated blankly.
His question fortunately turned the conversation into an explanation about the Triwizard Tournament that he'd apparently participated in this year. It lasted all the way down to the crowded entrance hall where they waited for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. But after they had finished and Ron and Hermione moved on to other subjects, Harry stood silently with his stomach tied in knots.
"So I won, did I?" he muttered. But that... That wasn't right. Being tricked into the Tournament, winning, being whisked away to Voldemort. It couldn't be ri—
Harry stood in the stands, one voice amongst the deafening cheer as Cedric Diggory lifted the Triwizard Cup high into the air, beaming proudly at the crowd—
He sucked in a breath sharply. That's right. Cedric had won. He hadn't even participated in the Tournament— But that wasn't what his friends were saying. That wasn't what everyone was saying. That wasn't what the large bag of gold in his trunk was saying. But... His memory of Cedric winning was so clear, so real. How could it not be true?
How could Cedric be dead?
"'Arry!"
He looked around. A pale haired woman was hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. He recognized her as Fleur Delacour, the French Triwizard participant and his gut tightened again.
"We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," said Fleur as she reached him, holding out her hand. "I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my English."
"It's very good already," Ron said in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled. For his part, Harry just stared.
"I'm...sure you'll find something," he said after a moment. "I'd be happy to help you look, if you like."
Ron and Hermione both stared at him now, dumbstruck. Fleur smiled brightly and gave a charming laugh. "Zat would be lovely, 'Arry!" she said. "I shall owl you over ze summer, when I return to England." She smiled again and turned to go. "Good-bye, 'Arry. It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"
He watched as Fleur hurried back across the lawns to Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the sunlight. There was definitely something familiar about her.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron demanded angrily. Did you just—?"
"Could I have a vord?" a gruff voice suddenly asked. It belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man—Victor Krum. The other Tournament participant.
"Oh..." said Hermione, looking slightly flustered, "...yes...all right." She followed Krum through the crowd and out of sight. Harry wondered if there was something between the two of them.
"You'd better hurry up!" Ron called loudly after her. "The carriages'll be here in a minute!" He spent the next few minutes craning his neck over the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They returned quite soon and Hermione had a faint smile on her face.
"I liked Diggory," Krum abruptly said to Harry. "He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang—with Karkaroff," he added, scowling.
Harry nodded slowly. "He was...a good man. Brave." Or so he thought. He didn't remember what Cedric was like, but it felt like the right thing to say.
And apparently it was, if the sudden smile Krum was wearing was anything to go by. He shook Harry's hand firmly, nodding lowly to him. Harry returned the gesture. Ron, meanwhile, looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, "Can I have your autograph?"
Hermione turned away, smiling at the horse-drawn carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron.
Harry waited until Krum truly had left before turning to Ron and asking, "His autograph? Why?"
Ron looked surprised for a brief moment, as though he'd forgotten about Harry's memory loss. "He's a professional Quidditch player; a seeker, like you. He caught the snitch in World Cup last summer."
Like me? He was a seeker? That felt...oddly right.
Harry did not like the Dursleys. Actually, that was putting it rather lightly. They were easily the worst people he'd ever met, even accounting for his still most missing memory. He locked himself away in his room and spent as much time away from them as he could. Thankfully, they left him alone.
But there was something bothering him more than the Dursleys. Well, the Dursleys were a part of it, but it wasn't just them. It was everything. It was being at #4 Privet Driver, it was sleeping on his hard mattress. It was Hedwig who had flown off the moment he'd let her out of her cage, and hadn't yet returned. It was all so wrong. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that he shouldn't be there, with the Dursleys.
And his memory was finally starting to return. It was only bits and pieces, still far from enough to create a full picture, but what he did remember only increased the feeling of wrongness. Something wasn't right.
A tall dark haired man laughed and took a seat at the table, gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke of the Quidditch match. He turned to the woman and—
Harry shook his head as though that would clear out the images that kept popping up. No, something definitely wasn't right.
His stomach growled. Grimacing, Harry stood and started to make his way downstairs, planning on making himself a sandwich. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen. The thin, horse-like woman was at the sink, washing dishes. Harry loathed thinking of her as his aunt—
A bony woman sneered down at him, resentment clear on her face. A red haired woman smiled tightly. "Petunia, I'd like you to meet Harry, my—"
He blinked and saw that the woman was staring at him. Her nose was turned up slightly, as though she smelled something foul. Harry looked away and walked over to the fridge, pulling out some bread. "Would you like something?" he asked out of sheer politeness.
Petunia seemed surprised, and then narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "No," she said shortly. She turned back to the sink and proceeded to ignore his presence. Harry followed suit and focused solely on his meal.
A small, round boy peered around the woman's legs, his eyes round with curiosity. Harry cocked his head to the side and stared at him, wondering if—
He frowned tightly as he cut the finished sandwich in half, using more force than was strictly necessary. Vernon and Dudley were both out at the moment. Without them, the house was blissfully quiet. Harry fancied going out as well, since it was such a nice day, but he was in the middle of re-reading some of his recent school books to make sure that he didn't forget anything.
Harry did not, however, like being left alone with his aunt. He didn't like her and she clearly didn't like him. Even now there was resentment rolling off her in waves.
"Do you plan on just leaving that plate there?" Petunia said sharply as Harry stood up.
Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Harry picked up the plate. "You don't have to be so angry all the time," he muttered.
Petunia's face grew dark with anger. "Don't you talk back to me, young man!" she said shrilly. "You're lucky we agreed to take you in!"
Harry scoffed as he dropped the plate onto the counter. Take him in indeed! It wasn't right. None of it was right.
He whirled around and left the room before he could further provoke his aunt. He wasn't mad at her so much as the entire situation. It was building inside of him, waiting to explode. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on his bed, calming himself down.
Naturally, it was less than a day later when he found himself snapping at his aunt, exchanging snide remarks with her. But rather than being stress relief, the short exchanges were just building up, making him more and more tense.
"You do your own laundry," Petunia snapped. She glared at the shirt hung over the chair in Harry's room like it was offending her. "I will not have you dirtying up my home!"
"I'm not dirty," Harry retorted. "And have you seen your son's room? That's where that smell is coming from!"
"Don't you dare insult your cousin! It's your, your freakishness that's making everyone in this house uncomfortable!"
The woman sighed. A man with long, dark hair sat next to her and patted her shoulder comfortingly. "It's your fault," he was saying. "That sister of yours has hated you since the day you got your Hogwarts letter—hated you because you're a witch and she'll always be just a Muggle."
"You—you're bitter!" Harry growled. Something in the back of his mind told him this wasn't a good idea, that lashing out at his aunt wasn't going to help. He didn't listen. "You've always been bitter, because my mother was a witch while you'll always be just a Muggle!"
He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.
Petunia's face went stark white. Her eyes seemed to be ready to pop out of her head as she gaped at him, her mouth working soundlessly. Then she stilled suddenly, growing completely cold. There was no burning rage at his words, no roaring fury. Only that cold that screamed louder than she ever could have.
"Get out." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the space between them like steel, cold and sharp. "Get your things and get out of my house."
She turned around and disappeared down the stairs without another word.
Harry was left staring after her for a good minute. He swallowed heavily, knowing she meant. Whatever reason she'd had to agree to take him in years ago was now gone. He couldn't say that it wasn't his fault, couldn't say that he hadn't pushed her too it—and he couldn't say that he didn't want it. This house was slowly making him go crazy. Even now the walls felt as though they were closing in, ready to smother him to death.
Silently, he turned on his heel and walked back into the room. All of his things were still packed away in his trunk, except for a book on the desk and the few clothes he hadn't put away. Even his toothbrush was still inside, only taken out when he used it. He had never settled in here, even though it had been nearly a week. He had never felt comfortable, never felt like he should be there. He didn't know these people, his "relatives". They were not family. They were barely even strangers.
And as he carried his trunk and the owl's empty cage down the stairs and out the door, he didn't look back at #4 Privet Drive.
Harry was lucky. Very, very lucky.
It was only after catching a ride on the Knight Bus that he'd realized—with dawning horror—that he didn't have a Gringotts key, nor even know where it was. And the only way to get another one was through the Ministry, which would obviously draw far too much attention to him. The children at school thought that he was deranged and possibly dangerous. He didn't want to know what the adults thought.
Which brought him to why he was very, very lucky: he still had a bag of galleons in his trunk, his winnings from the Triwizard Tournament.
It was a lifesaver. It was more than a lifesaver; it was a miracle. Without that money, he would have had to sleep on the streets. He wouldn't have even been able to pay for his ride on the Knight Bus! He would have had nowhere to go, and no way to contact anyone. And he certainly wouldn't have gone back to #4 Privet Drive. No force in the world could make him go back there, not even Merlin himself.
He stood back to back with another man, both of their glasses reflecting the fire that danced around him. The man was grinning. "Ready to fight your first Death Eaters, Harry?" He chuckled. "I suppose the proper, fatherly thing to do would be to tell you to run, but that's not exactly an option, is it?"
Harry grimaced. The memories were getting annoying though. As glad as he was that they were starting to return at an increasingly pace, they were still unsettling and often seemed to overlap incorrectly with what he'd learned since waking up in the Hospital Wing what felt like years ago.
Running a hand through his hair with a sigh, Harry stood and peered out the window to the quiet street below. The sunset was fading and it was beginning to grow dark. He was staying at a small wizarding hotel in London. It was far enough from Diagon Alley to technically not be in the Wizarding World, but close enough to walk. He didn't dare stay at the Leaky Cauldron; he would be recognized instantly.
Not being able to do magic was the worst part, Harry thought as he walked away from the window crouched beside his open trunk. He could easily wear a glamour charm if he could just use his wand, but it was impossible to hide from the Trace. He pulled out his invisibility cloak from the bottom of the trunk with a small sound of triumph. Smiling down at it, he ran his fingers across the silky, silvery material.
"Happy Birthday, Harry." The man grinned broadly at him as Harry stared at the cloak in shock. "Make sure you use it well at school!"
A woman huffed. "Oh, honestly J—"
Harry's throat grew dry and his eyes started to burn slightly. Why was everyone saying his parents had died when he was a baby? Why weren't his own memories saying the same thing?
Taking a deep breath, Harry slid the cloak over his shoulders, fastened it tightly, and then checked a mirror to make sure that no part of him was showing. It was risky to go out like this without also using a silencing charm, but he had little choice, seeing as he didn't have a regular cloak to hide his face with. He supposed he could try to go into Diagon Alley the same way he'd checked into this hotel—by taking off his glasses and covering his scar with his hair—but it wasn't much of a disguise.
He was probably being paranoid. It wasn't as though anything would happen if someone saw and recognized him. But... It wasn't safe. Not anymore. Not with Voldemort back. If a good witch or wizard recognized him, they might just report it to the Daily Prophet, which admittedly he definitely wanted to avoid. But if one of Voldemort's followers recognized him... Well, according to his friends he'd escaped from Voldemort, so there was no way that he could be happy with him.
But he had to wonder about that. Why had Voldemort been after him in the first place? Why was he, a teenager, the target of a dark wizard? He was still in school for Merlin's sake!
He smiled earnestly as he shook the director's hand. "Thank you for this opportunity, sir. I know it's not often that you accept fresh graduates—"
Harry palmed his wand, just in case, and silently slipped out of the room. At this time in the evening the streets were mostly vacant. At least empty enough for Harry to move through them without fear of touching anyone. Getting into the Leaky Cauldron was trickier, but to his luck—something he really needed to stop relying on—he was able to follow a wizard inside, and then into the alley.
Smiling faintly, Harry glanced around Diagon Alley, memories shopping trips rising in his mind. He'd stop by the apothecary first; he might not be able to use magic, but he could still brew potions. A polyjuice would take a while to make, but it would be worth it in the long run, allowing him to move around without being noticed. The Dursleys would never tell anyone that he was gone, so he should be able to last the summer, and the years after that, without anyone knowing.
Except that he was supposed to stay with Ron after his birthday. Harry grimaced. Well, he'd deal with that when the time came.
For now, his attention was on the apothecary. And he should pick up a regular cloak too, so that he wouldn't have to use his invisibility cloak again before the polyjuice was done. He could leave money behind for the purchases, even if he "stole" them. And things would work out in the end. He smiled again. He could do this.
Drying blood plastered his hair to the side of his face. He was panting heavily and holding his broken arm, tight against his body. The Death Eater's menacing mask stared at him from where the dark wizard was sprawled motionless on the ground. "Shit."
Harry was bored and restless. He'd already reviewed most of his old school books and was half way through the new ones he'd picked up for the next year. But there was a reason why he'd always left the studying up to Hermione—it was boring. Magical or not, if he had to read another sentence about the properties of the number seven in regards to the power of charm casting, he was going to go insane.
If he wasn't already insane, that was.
He gripped the broom tightly as he swerved beneath a chaser—
Standing before the window, he leaned his head against the cool glass and screwed his eyes close. The books were a distraction, if a boring one. It was all they'd ever been. Something to think about, other than the world around him that was slowly being peeled away, strip by strip.
He lifted the quill from the ink and swiftly drew it across the page, writing in tight, neat letters, "Dear Uncle Siri—"
Madame Pomfrey hadn't said that it would be like this. She hadn't said that the images, the memories, would bombard him in a never-ending stream. She never said that they would nag at him, demanding attention.
It had been what, three weeks since he'd first woken up? Maybe even a month. His memories were supposed to have returned in a matter of days. Not a month.
He stared with wide eyes up at a display of confectionary, and then started pulling on the man's hand. "Can we get something, pleeeeease?" The man chuckled. "Your mother said no sweets, Harry. And don't try to use that look on me!"
Something was wrong. He'd known it in his bones since the moment he'd awoken, and had dwelt on it throughout that first sleepless night. It had troubled and pulled at him ever since, no matter how much he ignored it or tried to pretend that it would all be okay once his memories returned. But now, as those memories returned, it was becoming increasingly clear that the entire world was...off.
The worst part was that he didn't know whether it was his memories or the world itself that wrong. And that there was nothing he could do about it.
The loud roar of a motorcycle filled the front yard. He grinned widely at the other teenage boy at his side, both their eyes glinting with excitement. The man on the bike looked equally amused. "So, who's first?"
He needed help.
This wasn't something that he could deal with on his own, and he was wise enough to admit it. He knew next to nothing about how memory worked, other than the basic Occulmency lessons he'd been given after leaving school. No, that was wrong. He was still in school. He had just finished his 4th year and was still just a teenager.
Dumbledore was the first person who came to mind, being the headmaster of Hogwarts. But he didn't really know the man and had no way of knowing if he'd just pass Harry off as being crazy or looking for attention like the other students.
"Bow your head," the man murmured. Harry did so while still staring curiously at the large stone monument. "Dumbledore was a great wizard," the man continued. "It's a pity you never got to meet him, Harry."
Harry grimaced. Definitely not Dumbledore. He could always tell his friends about it, but... They'd been so uneasy with his memory loss, even though they'd tried to hide it. He didn't want to push them further away with his worries. They were some of the only people he could trust right now.
A family friend perhaps? He considered what little he could remember. Sirius was one of the few people that matched up with his memories; he could remember Ron mentioning him once or twice at Hogwarts. It was worth a try at the very least.
He tried not to wonder why Sirius had left him to stay with the Dursleys, instead of taking him in.
The exteriors of the buildings that made up Grimmauld Place were just as grimy as Harry remembered. There were several broken windows in sight and paint was peeling from the doors. In contrast #12 was, if not clean, at least untouched. Harry titled his head back and stared up at the building, noticing that there was something rather...dark about it that he remembered Sirius having long since gotten rid of, after the deaths of his parents.
Another discrepancy, seemingly small, that spoke louder than words could.
He rapped his knuckles on the door and then quickly stepped inside once it had opened. "Sorry to bother you at such a late hour, Uncle," he said, fatigued. "But there's big trouble down at the Ministry. We think there's been a security breach—"
"Harry?"
Turning sharply at the sound of his name, Harry looked back and found a very familiar wizard standing on the sidewalk a few feet away from him. A very familiar, very dead wizard.
Harry whipped out his wand and slid behind a trashcan for cover before the other man could so much as blink. "Who the hell are you!"
"What are you—?" The guise of Remus Lupin gaped at him.
"Don't!" Harry growled. "You think playing with me will work, Death Eater? Remus died years ago!"
The man looked as though he'd been slapped. He spluttered, at a complete loss for words. But he did not try to draw his wand, Harry noticed. After a moment he regained some of his senses and his bewildered expression smoothed away into wariness. He held his hands up in a placating manner.
"Harry?" he repeated. "Are you alright?"
And again, things weren't adding up. He seemed so real.
"Swear," Harry said suddenly as a thought dawned on him. "Swear on your life that you are Remus Lupin." He looked completely taken aback again, and Harry gripped his wand tighter. "Swear!"
"Alright," the man said with feigned calm. "I'll swear, but only if you also swear that you're Harry Potter."
Harry nodded tightly. There were people out on the streets looking at them funny, but neither of them paid them any attention. The man slowly put his hand into his pocket and withdrew his wand, keeping his eyes on Harry the whole time. Harry gritted his teeth, watching carefully for any sudden movements the man might make, and prepared to take him down in an instant, Statute of Secrecy or no. Mocking his loved ones, especially the dead, was something that made his stomach churn.
Once the man had drawn his wand, he said, "I swear on my life and magic that I am Remus John Lupin." The tip of his wand burned brightly, sealing the oath.
A moment of silence passed. When the man—Remus!—didn't keel over, Harry's shoulders slumped. He stared at the man, unable to believe that it was really him. His mind raced, trying to think of a way, any way, that he could have been fooled.
"Remus?" he whispered. "But how! You— I saw you—"
The man carefully approached him and laid his hands on his shoulders. "Let's step inside, Harry," he said. "Then you can tell me what this is about."
Nodding mutely, Harry followed. Once the door had closed behind them, Remus pressed his finger to his lips before silently moving down the corridor, all but tiptoeing past a covered picture frame. Harry glanced at it curiously as he followed suit. Once they were in the parlor, Remus finally relaxed. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on a gaudy gold coat stand.
"And about your oath...?" Remus said cautiously.
Harry opened his mouth to agree again, when suddenly something occurred to him. "The Trace." How could he have forgotten about it? He couldn't risk having the Ministry's attention turned to him, especially since his Aunt had kicked him out.
"Oaths aren't spells, and therefore aren't picked up by the Trace," Remus said with a shake of his head. "Plus the Blacks have a number of wards on this house that might negate the Trace anyway... But it's best not to test that out." There was an odd look in his eyes as he stared at Harry, a sort of wariness that hadn't left since Harry had first pointed his wand at him. "The Ministry can't detect magic here, not even with the Trace."
Nodding mutely, Harry took his wand out again. He'd never studied the properties of wards much, and it was a pity he hadn't, as that bit of knowledge was very, very useful.
"I swear on my life and magic that I am Harry James Potter." The tip the wand glowed momentarily.
The wary look still hadn't left his eyes, though they did soften. "Harry," he said softly. "What happened?"
Snorting, Harry shook his head. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You were dead."
"When? When do you think I died?"
"During the raid on—" Harry began, only to stop abruptly. During the raid on Hogwarts in my 6th year, he finished silently. Only he had just finished his 4th year. Another discrepancy in his memories, only this one was so much more than that. It was real, tangible. Remus was alive.
And if he broke down for just minute, lost under the weight of his confusion and the return of a dear family member, Remus said nothing of it later. Harry dared not dwell on the memory for long.
"There's something wrong with me," Harry said when he had calmed. "With my memories."
Remus frowned. Memory problems were never the herald of good things. "When did they start?"
For a brief moment, Harry looked surprised. "You didn't know—? Oh, well of course not. How could you?" he mumbled. And so be began to explain haltingly about the dreamless sleep potion and the troubles he'd been having as his memories returned. Remus' frown grew progressively deeper until at last he was sitting staring down at the floorboards, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped tightly.
"And you say you remember...your parents? Anything tangible?" he asked softly.
Harry considered the question for a moment before shrugging uncomfortably. There was a thick, oppressing silence hanging over the house that disturbed him. "Not everything, but enough to know that it was them," he said. "My mom... she loved the scent of vanilla. When I was little she would occasionally take me and my father out to see Muggle movies." His lips quirked upwards into a small smile. "Dad always cried at the sad parts."
Chuckling lightly, Remus said, "I can see him doing that. He was always much more sensitive that he let on, and always covered it up with bravado." He sighed heavily then and rubbed the back of his neck. "Harry, I don't know what to tell you. I've never heard of anything like this happening before. It sounds beyond belief—but then, magic often is."
"And what do you suggest I do?"
"I...don't think there's much you can do, at least not until all of your memories, if that's really what they are, return. Perhaps they'll give you some clue. If not, you should tell Dumbledore. He'll be able to help."
Harry took the advice mutely, not yet sure whether he would actually speak to Dumbledore.
There were footsteps on the stairs above them. Harry tensed as the plodded downward, towards them.
"Remus!" a very familiar voice called as they came into the parlor. "That you? Do you have any news from Dumbledore—?" He stopped short at the foot of the stairs and blinked in surprise. "Harry?"
Standing, Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry for intruding, Uncle Sirius," he said.
If anything, that only surprised the man all the more. "Uncle? That's a new one. Don't make me feel so old!" He knitted his brow and approached them in a few quick strides. "Is everything okay, Harry? What are you doing here?" Sirius looked at Remus over Harry's head, but the other man refused to meet his gaze.
"I'm fine, really," Harry reassured him. "Just a bit...out of sorts."
Remus sighed. "You might as well have a seat, Sirius," he said.
A/N: This is an idea that I've been working on for a while and was planning to write as a full length story. This chapter here, however, is as far as I got before losing interest and moving on to other things, so I'm posting it here for now. If I ever regain interest in it, I'll probably flesh it out finish it up (the finished story would have been about 30-50k words), but that's looking rather unlikely right now.
Regardless, the basic idea is a mix of dimension and time travel, with Harry coming from a world where the prophecy never existed. Because of this, Voldemort never came after him, his parents never died, Sirius was never arrested, and he grew up as a normal wizard—but the war also never ended and instead spiraled out of control. Harry was in his early to mid twenties there, employed by the ministry as hitwizard, and he wound up being the one to kill Voldemort entirely through coincidence.
I would love to finish up this story eventually. But the drive just isn't there right now.
Also, amusingly enough, this chapter alone is longer than the previous 4 combined.
—S.R.