Here is chapter two, and, as always, I want to give a hug eshout out to my beta, who did a wonderful job fixing this up for me. I love the comments you leave, hun :)

Harry Potter was having one of the weirdest days of his life. First, he woke up in some strange hospital, found out that his parents were somehow alive -- or some wacko's had decided they wanted to play dress up and pretend to be his parents. Then, he was drugged, woke up days later, with the crazies still there, and was told he'd be sent home in a week. And to top it all off, they actually acted like parents -- like how the Weasley's acted with their own children. They looked concerned, asked if he was alright, and even went so far as to offer to bring him anything he wanted, so he wouldn't get too bored.

This was not how a kidnapping was supposed to work. Where were the threats, the pain, the torture? Where were the Death Eater masks leering down at him like the most gruesome nightmares of his childhood? Hell, where was the magic? Everything around him was so mundane and muggle, that it was almost hard for him to grasp. No castles, no finery, no robes or wands. Just people. Normal, everyday, muggle people, acting as if they had known him all his life.

But they hadn't! They hadn't known him all his life, because he certainly hadn't been here, in this hospital, for more than a couple of days. But no, that wasn't what they were claiming. They were claiming he had been here for years, and that everything he thought he had experienced, everything he remembered doing, was nothing more than a hallucination. Did they really think he was that insane!

But ... then again, how could he explain the television? The fact that he was someplace where he could watch the telly was surprising in and of itself, but according to the television, or more correctly the news, his entire view of the muggle world was wrong, and he was pretty sure that was impossible. He had lived with his muggle relatives every summer, and for his entire life before that. He did have some knowledge of the world his relatives lived in. Or, at least, he had thought he did.

There were wars going on he hadn't even known about, in countries he'd never even heard of. The Minister of Magic's name was wrong, as well, even though he could distinctly remember hearing his name spoken over the summer, on one of those rare occasions that he'd actually been allowed to watch the news with the rest of the Dursley family. And what sane wizard or witch would come up with a spell to change what a person saw on the news, anyway? It didn't make any sense!

Too many things were adding up in the wrong direction -- in the direction of these people really being his parents, of what they were telling him turning out to actually be true. And he didn't like it.

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James was back at the hospital the next day, a shopping bag full of books in his arms as he headed to his son's room. He had already stopped by the doctor's office for a quick chat, and was feeling high as a kite, as the saying went. His day at work had seemed to fly by, although he had gotten quite a few odd looks from his coworkers for being ... overly perky. He wouldn't be surprised if his boss got complaints about him, pretty soon. He really had been disgustingly chirpy.

But now, the end of the day was here, and he couldn't be happier. He was going to see his son, and he was intent on making this day even better than the last. If only Harry would cooperate a bit more... But he couldn't think about that. He had to keep focused on the good, or the bad could very well break him in two. Keeping strong for a boy in a coma was different from a boy alive and talking and kicking, and most definitely angry. But he wouldn't change things -- wouldn't go back to the easier way of things, for all the money in the world.

But he couldn't help but worry. Worry about the repercussions of Harry's "world" that he had lived in for so long, and worry about Harry's reaction to his relatives. It would only be a matter of time before they came beating down on the door, demanding to see the boy, after going so long believing he would never wake up. Really, he and Lily had been the only ones to hold out hope. They'd been the only ones to believe. Squaring his shoulders, James walked in to the hospital room.

Harry had been passing the time by flipping through the television channels, before finally settling on a cartoon channel. If he was going to be cooped up all day like this, he might as well get some form of enjoyment out of it. It had been a while since he'd been allowed to watch cartoons at the Dursley house, and the animation had certainly gotten better in that time, so he found himself glued to the telly, unable to take his eyes off it -- even if the storyline was a bit young. He'd forgotten just how addicting a program on the telly could be.

James stood in the door watching his son for a few moments, a small smile curling his lips. He could remember watching his son react in this same exact way to cartoons when he was younger, getting sucked right into the television as if it were the only thing in the world. It hadn't happened very often, mind you. Harry had always preferred to be outside, in the fresh air, rather than cooped up inside. Sometimes, though (usually on a rainy, icky day), he could be found curled up in the living room, lying bonelessly on the carpeted floor in front of the television.

Clearing his throat, James walked in to the room, steadfastly ignoring his son's cold glare as he set the books on a bureau that took up on whole side of the room, with a small sink worked in to it. "I brought some books by. I hope you like science fiction." James sent his son a grin, filling a nearby plastic cup with water before walking over to what was quickly becoming his usual chair, leaning back with a sigh. God, his back hurt.

Harry's eyes flicked from his so-called father to the pile of books, worrying on his lower lip. Seeing his look, James' lips quirked in to a small half-smile, forcing himself to his feet and back over the books, before returning to his son's bedside and setting them on an empty spot on the bed. "Let's see what we have here, shall we?"

Harry's lips quirked slightly at that, unable to keep a serious expression for long. Not with somebody so intent on getting a positive reaction from him, so intent on making him smile.

Eyes brightening at the sight of that involuntary smile, James set about his task with a renewed vigor, all thoughts of sleep wiped from his mind.

As Harry listened to this man ... what was he supposed to call him? If there was even the slightest chance that he could really be James Potter ... that everything they were telling him was true ... if there was even the smallest chance, he didn't want to screw things up, didn't want to hurt them, or make them angry with him, when he had finally found the family he'd always been wanting.

And as he was listening to this man, he couldn't help but let his mind wander, thinking back over the last two days. The doctor had come in a couple of times while ... James ... was gone, but he hadn't learned much beyond the bare basics, and his attitude probably hadn't helped matters much. He should have at least been polite -- if there was one thing that his life with the Dursley's had taught him, it was how to be unfailingly polite, under all circumstances. Even when people were acting their worst to him, he had always taken the time to say "sir" ma'am" and the like. It had been drilled into his head too thoroughly for anything else.

With this doctor, though, all those years of good manners had gone straight out the window, and he had seemed unable to keep his snide comments and anger to himself, letting loose the first thing that came to his mind, and only feeling bad about it once the man had left.

They said that he was in the hospital, the same one he'd been in since he was ten years old. That he had been in a coma for the past couple of years, that everything he had experienced, everyone he had known, had all just been a figment of his imagination. He'd yelled at them, a lot. Screamed that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true, and that they were lying. They'd had to sedate him.

He really didn't want to go through that again -- the hospital orderlies holding him down, as the nurse injected him with something, in the muggle way. No spells, no potions, just plain old muggle medicine, delivered in the most basic way -- straight in to his blood stream.

That was, perhaps, the most prominent reason why he was now listening, now willing to give this man, and any who came with him, the time of day. No spells. No wands. NO mention of anything even remotely magical. Why? He wanted to know ... he had to know. He had to know, for sure, that this wasn't just some crazy dream, some crazy plan of Voldemort to catch him off guard.

Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was the dream of every orphan, to find his parents alive and ready to take care him, with the perfect excuse for why they hadn't been there before. Maybe he was just dreaming, but he couldn't let go of that dream.

Not yet.

James watched his son, words trailing off into nothingness as he realized that the boy wasn't even listening to him. Harry seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, mind wandering away from the reality of the here and now. As he watched that distant look enter into his son's eyes, James' own eyes narrowed, lips thinning in anger, before he reached over and grasped his son's shoulders, giving him a rough shake.

Harry came out of his doze with a gasp, staring at James with wide eyes, lips parted as he breathed fast and hard. His surprise, however, quickly turned to anger. "What are you on about?" He asked angrily, shifting away from the man on the bed, as far as he could get without actually falling off.

"Don't do that. You looked .. you looked like before. When you were in the coma. You looked like that again." James finished lamely, blushing slightly as he stumbled for words. It wasn't that he was usually particularly eloquent, but that was bad for even him.

Harry leaned back against the headboard, brow furrowed as he watched the man uncertainly. So what was he supposed to do, never think? Always be talking or doing something? Every person needed a little bit of time in their own head! He didn't realize that he'd said all that out loud until James smiled ruefully, reaching over to ruffle his son's hair. "I know, and I shouldn't have reacted like that. I still need some time to adjust to you being here, I guess. Do you want to read any of these?"

Finally noticing the pile of books strewn across the bed, Harry bit down on his lip, eyes skimming over the titles, before shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the one by Tolkien, The Return of the King.

James reached over, plucking the book from his son's hand and replacing it with another by the same author, however, The Hobbit. "This is the first in the same series ... probably best to start at the beginning versus the end, don't you think?" He grinned at his son, who smiled sheepishly in return.

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Lily Potter remembered vividly the day that James had introduced her to baby Harry. Only two months old, it had happened when she was visiting her boyfriend by surprise. Apparently, she had come on his son's two-month birthday party, and had instantly realized that Harry Potter was spoiled rotten.

Contrary to popular belief, Lily was not the actual birth mother of Harry Potter. She wished she was, wished with all her might that that little boy was her own. But she had raised him, had tried to hard to fill the void that his mother had left behind, when she had left. It was her deepest fear that his mother would return one day, would ask to see him, to talk to him. That Harry would wake up to the sound of another woman's voice, would call her "mother". Would take that spot in his heart that had always been hers.

Harry had never known, never even guessed, that she wasn't technically his mother, and neither had anybody else. They'd moved before Harry turned two, to a new town, a new life, void of all the painful memories that had haunted James' old house. Memories of HER. And what really cinched it, was the eyes. They both had the same brilliant green eyes, eyes that seemed to almost glow in the right light. She'd gotten teased about those eyes a lot as a child, but on Harry, they were beautiful. Never once had any of his schoolmates said anything about them, except for the one time that a girl at his school had told him they were beautiful -- and proceeded to kiss him on the cheek.

You'd think it was the end of the world, they way he'd ranted on and on about "girl germs" when he'd gotten home. Apparently the shock had taken that long to wear off. Everybody in town always commented on how he had her eyes, and she never corrected them. James preferred it that way -- that people see Harry as THEIRS, not just his. That Harry believe his parents loved him, that BOTH his parents wanted him. And after the accident ... he'd needed her. Needed her to be there for Harry, for him. As if she'd ever say no.

Sometimes, in the dark of the night when the pain was almost too hard to bear, when James had finally cried himself to sleep like so many nights before, she'd wonder why she put herself through all this. Why she stayed, when she really had no obligation to care for a boy who really wasn't her flesh and blood. She'd let the bitterness take her over then, let herself hate the two men in her life. She'd blame James, blame Harry, for everything, for every hurt that pounded away at her heart. She'd wish that she had never met James, had never married him, had never become a wife and mother.

But the morning would come, and she'd look at the pictures strewn around the house, peak in on Harry's room untouched from the way he had left it. And the ache would subside just a little bit, the bitterness disappear like a cloud of smoke. How could she hate them? How could she blame them?

But his room wasn't untouched anymore, was it? She'd gone into a frenzy of cleaning, packing away his old clothes and laying down fresh linens, wrinkling her nose at the state of his old bed sheets and blanket. They really were filthy, after so many years remaining untouched. And they smelled like her grandmother's old sock drawer.

By the end of the day, all of his old toy's had been removed, his bed-remade and scrubbed down with the strongest cleaning supplies she cold find, and some of her books lined the shelves, along with some art and writing supplies. She didn't know if he enjoyed doing either of those things, but she'd rather be safe than sorry. She couldn't stop working, couldn't let herself think about everything that had happened, or she'd lose it. Lily was worried, that if she let herself start crying, that she'd never stop.

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Harry was halfway through the first chapter of his book when dinner came. James had left a couple of hours before, promising that he'd be back the next day. His wife would be coming, as well. Lily. Who he insisted on calling "your mum."

She wasn't his mother. His mother was dead, and so was his father. But something held him back from saying it -- maybe the look of pleading in the man's eyes, in the way he looked imploringly at Harry. Pleading for him not to shatter this good day they'd had together

And all in all, it had been a good day. As long as he didn't try to move too much, he felt relatively good. A little weak, and a little annoyed at the numerous IVs sticking into his hands and arms, but overall, he felt better than he had in a while. Not that the hospital food had anything to do with that. It really was vile. But it was food, and he was always grateful for that, especially after a summer with the Dursley's.

Picking idly at the remainder of his food, Harry slumped down further in the bed, eyes drifting up to stare at the ceiling as he brought a single piece of carrot up to his lips, munching thoughtfully. He kept wondering when he was going to wake up, but he never did. He kept wishing that he would hear Dumbledore's voice, or even Snape's. Anybody he knew. But he never heard that, either. Every time he opened his eyes, it was to this room, these people he didn't know and didn't want to get to know.

Reaching over blindly for his book, Harry continued to munch on random vegetables from his food tray as he forced himself to become immersed in a land of fantasy once again.

It was the only land he understood, anymore.