Dumbledore sped down the steps past Neville and Harry, who had no more thought of leaving. Dumbledore was already at the foot of the steps when the Death Eaters nearest realized he was there. There were yells; one of the Death Eaters ran for it, scrabbling like a monkey up the stone steps opposite.
Dumbledore's spell pulled him back as easily and effortlessly as though he had hooked him with an invisible line— only one couple was still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival.
Harry saw Sirius duck Bellatrix's jet of red light: he was laughing at her.
"Come on, you can do better than that!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.
A sense of foreboding and anxiousness rose in Harry's chest- it was as if someone had filled his lungs with water.
You will be alone, a nasty voice that vaguely sounded like his uncle reminded him, just watch.
The second jet of light- a poisonous green that vaguely reminded Harry of the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets- hit Sirius squarely on the chest.
The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock. It was as if he'd simply had the air knocked out of him. Perhaps it was Harry's own hopeful naivety coloring between the lines.
He offhandedly remembered something Hermione had mentioned earlier in the year: something about how the human brain had this remarkable ability to process and interpret the vast amount of sensory information it receives from the environment- but, how, in the case of something traumatic or highly stressful, it would try to minimize the trauma by altering what one thought they saw or remembered.
Would his brain let him remember this?
Nonetheless, seeing the spell hit Sirius spurred Harry into action. He released Neville and found himself jumping down the steps again, pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore turned to the dais too.
It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch. Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind and then fell back into place.
"NO!" Harry roared, sprinting behind Bellatrix, who was giggling madly and running toward the Veil. "YOU KILLED SIRIUS- I'LL KILL YOU! STUPEFY!"
Harry's wand shook; a pulsing red light warmed the tip of the wood before blasting forward, roiling through the open air of the cavern before harmlessly dissipating against Bellatrix's hastily erected shield.
"You'll have to do better than that, little Harry!" she called in a mocking, high-pitched voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. "I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!"
"I am!" shouted Harry. Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before; a hatred fueled by a deep sense of loss, injustice, and helplessness. Being alone had been something he'd been forced to get used to; until, of course, the Hogwarts letter had arrived at 4 Privet Drive all those years ago. Right as he'd let himself dream of a future where, maybe, he wasn't so accustomed to the feeling, he'd just seen it snatched away- and the woman in front of him was the culprit. Trying to channel the fury churning in his veins, Harry flung himself toward the woman and bellowed "Crucio!"
Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had a few minutes ago—she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing.
"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice now. "You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain, to enjoy it…righteous anger won't hurt me for long. I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson—"
"Harry, look out!" Dumbledore's voice rumbled from behind him, though it was garbled by the pointless bustling echoing off the floor and the flashes of more spells splashing around him.
Harry felt something smash into his back, and even as a tug caught his shirt, he sailed helplessly into the Veil.
As Harry tumbled through the veil, he was plunged into a darkness more profound than any he had ever known. It was as if he had fallen into an endless void, with nothing to cling to and no hope of finding his way back. The cold bit into his skin, numbing his limbs and making him feel as if he were frozen solid.
The only sound was the rush of wind in his ears, a howling gale that seemed to be pulling him down, down, down into the depths of the abyss. And the darkness was so absolute that he could not even see his own hand in front of his face.
For a moment, Harry felt a flicker of panic, a fear that he would be lost in this darkness forever, doomed to wander alone and forgotten in this cold, empty place. But then he felt a presence around him as if there were others in this darkness with him.
The presence wasn't friendly.
He felt a chill run down his spine as he sensed the presence of something malevolent, something that was hungry for his soul. The darkness seemed to writhe and twist around him, like a living thing, and Harry could feel the weight of its malice pressing down on him.
As he continued to fall, Harry felt a sense of hopelessness settle over him like a shroud. It was a feeling of utter despair, a certainty that he would never escape this place, that he would never see his friends and family again. It was the feeling of death itself, the complete and final end of all things.
All because of an errant spell.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the darkness receded. Harry felt a rush of air around him as he spat out of the Veil and back into the world of the living.
Well, to be more precise, he was dumped onto a cold, stone floor.
At first, Harry couldn't see anything, his vision clouded by a thick mist. But then he heard a voice calling his name, and the fog began to clear. He saw the outline of a figure running towards him, and as it drew closer, he recognized the familiar face of Fleur Delacour.
"Fleur?" Harry croaked, feeling disoriented and confused. His voice came out raspy and quiet, "What are you doing here?"
"Harry! Oh, thank goodness you're okay!" Fleur exclaimed, pulling him into a tight embrace, her words dripping with her heavy French accent. "I've been so worried about you. I told you trying to practice spell deflection in Salle de l'Aube, but no, you choose to be un imbécile—"
Harry blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening. He remembered the fall, the cold, the darkness. Was he dead? But then he realized that the stone floor felt solid beneath him, and he could feel Fleur's warm breath on his cheek.
"Where am I?" Harry asked, his voice shaking. Memories of Bellatrix and the Veil flashed through his mind, and he let out an involuntary shudder, "How…are you here?"
Was this some kind of trick? As he looked around the room, the idea seemed rather farfetched. Everything was far too detailed to be a trick.
The room, wherever they were, was flooded with the soft pink and orange hues of dawn, emanating from the enormous stained-glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling on one side of the room. The intricate designs of the glass depicted the rising sun and the sky in various shades of warm colors, casting a beautiful glow throughout the room.
The walls were decorated with ethereal murals of winged horses galloping through fields of wildflowers, giving the impression of being outside in a tranquil meadow. The floor was made of white marble that shone like a mirror, with intricate golden patterns that looked like beams of light shining through the windows.
"This isn't funny, Harry," Fleur frowned, helping him to his feet. Her pretty blue eyes regarded him with an annoyed look, "Is this for my prank last week? Humph. You should listen to Professor Bouchard: Quand on ne peut revenir en arrière, on ne doit se préoccuper que de la meilleure façon d'aller de l'avant."
Was that French?
"I don't…I don't understand," Harry pleaded, instinctively reaching upward to scratch the lower rim of his glasses- a nervous tic from since he was a child. To his surprise, the sensation on his fingers was that of skin, "What? My glasses…"
"Harry…" Fleur's voice took on a warning tone as she led him to one of the several plush cushions scattered around the room. "Please stop. You know I do not like this kind of joke."
As Harry opened his mouth to speak, again, his eyes were drawn to a circular dais that stood in the center of the room, with an intricately carved podium at its center. "That's it!"
"This is how I got here!" He pushed off the couch and walked to the center of the room, gesturing toward the dais, "When I fell through the veil, I must've—"
"You're scaring me," Fleur called from the couch, her eyebrows scrunched together. She placed a comforting hand on his back, "Harry, we've been studying for the Défense contre les forces du Mal exam. Are you feeling alright?"
"Wait, what?" Harry tried to stomach what Fleur said, "Fleur, I really don't understand—"
"Okay," Fleur said with a huff. "If you insist on playing continuing this…this astuce, we will go to the nurse, hm? Honestly, Harry…"
As far as Harry could tell, the medical wing of…wherever he was, followed the design of being a grand and imposing place, much like the rest of the place.
The entrance hall was a spacious room with high ceilings, adorned with intricate murals of famous witches and wizards healing the sick and injured. The walls were lined with cabinets and shelves, filled with a vast array of medicinal plants, potions, and medical equipment.
To the left of the entrance was a reception area where a stern-looking matron sat behind a desk, taking notes, and directing patients to the appropriate healers.
When he and Fleur first arrived, the matron had given Harry such a bright smile that despite the situation, Harry found himself giving her one in return.
"Really?" Fleur bit her lip. Her annoyed expression from before had melted into a perpetually worried one that looked unnatural on her beautiful face, "You don't remember Madame Moreau?"
The waiting area was a comfortable space, furnished with plush armchairs and soft cushions. The room was illuminated by large windows that let in a soft, natural light, and potted plants were placed in strategic locations, adding to the overall ambiance of the room.
He and Fleur sat there while she filled out a form, occasionally shooting him worried glances that she thought he missed.
As Fleur continued to fill out the form, Harry took a deep breath and stood up, pacing back and forth in the waiting area. He couldn't shake off the feeling of disorientation and confusion.
Everything felt off.
Obviously, he knew that the Veil had something to do with all of this, but the question was what did it do? Was he simply sent back in time? Was he transported somewhere in the future? What if he was really dead, and like those sci-fi shows Dudley used to watch on the telly, he'd been sent to some sort of purgatory?
Suddenly, he caught sight of himself in a large mirror hanging on the wall. He stopped in his tracks, staring at his reflection.
The person looking back at him was not the scrawny, lanky teenager he had always known himself to be. Instead, he saw a broad-shouldered, muscular figure staring back at him, with arms that looked like they could easily lift a car.
Harry couldn't believe what he was seeing. He turned to the side, inspecting himself from every angle. His chest was wide, his arms thick with muscle, and his legs were sturdy like tree trunks.
Instead of wearing his usual Hogwarts robes, he found himself dressed in a formal uniform. It was made of fine, light-blue silk and had a fitted, double-breasted jacket that hugged his torso. The lapels were trimmed with delicate white lace, adding a touch of elegance to the ensemble.
The pants were also made of the same light-blue silk, and they tapered at the ankle, giving a clean, modern look. The waistband was cinched with a thin, silver belt that added a hint of shimmer to the outfit. The shoes were sleek and black, made of shiny patent leather that looked like it had been polished to a high shine- had he polished these shoes?
His hair was neatly combed, and styled in a way he had never seen before. It was shorter on the sides, and longer on top, styled in a slick, fashionable way.
He reached up to touch it, but before he could, Fleur appeared by his side, handing him a glass of water.
"Here, Harry," she said, her voice laced with concern. "You should drink some water. You're starting to worry me."
Harry took the glass and drank, still looking at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't understand what was happening to him. Why was he here? And why did he look so different?
"Madame Dufor will be with us in a moment," Fleur said, taking a seat next to him. "She's one of the best healers in all of France. If something is wrong, she'll know what to do."
As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, he noticed a strange sensation on his chest. It was a faint tingling, almost like a gentle electric shock. He looked down, and to his surprise, he saw a small, circular emblem etched onto the fabric of his suit.
It was the emblem of Beauxbatons Academy.
What?
His train of thought was interrupted as a woman, presumably, Madame Dufor called his name, and he and Fleur began walking deeper into the room.
Beyond the reception area was a series of interconnected rooms and wards, each with its own distinct purpose. The first room was an examination room, equipped with a long wooden table and shelves lined with instruments of all kinds, from scalpels to forceps, potions to salves. The walls were decorated with various anatomical diagrams and charts, and there was a sense of order and precision in everything in the room.
Further down the corridor, there were a series of private wards, each with its own bed, medical equipment, and healing crystals that glowed with a gentle, soothing light. The walls were painted in calming colors, and the room was adorned with vases of fresh flowers that filled the space with a pleasant aroma.
As Fleur and his assigned nurse spoke in hushed tones about, well, him, Harry peeked down the end of the hallway and into what appeared to be a small chapel, where patients and healers were going to meditate and reflect. The room was simple, with a single altar as if it was designed to promote calm and tranquility.
After a while, Harry was eventually led into a private ward, where he was instructed to sit on a cot as the nurse ran some tests on him.
"Miss Delacour," Madame Dufor eventually said with a grimace, "I regret to inform you, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with your friend."
"What?" Fleur repeated incredulously. "How is this bad news? This is good news, no?"
"In this case, it is anything but good news. It means that Monsieur Potter is not confounded, nor is he suffering the effects of a potion, or any other detectable curse. He truly believes everything he's saying of his own accord," Madame Dufor continued walking around Harry, the tip of her wand glowing red. "How remarkable. Tell me: you truly do not remember me, Monsieur?"
"No, madame," Harry replied. His voice, now since he'd calmed down a little, came out in a smooth, cultured, baritone, "I'm sorry."
The Veil had been a concept of which they'd known frighteningly little. Earlier, when he, Hermione, and Luna had skirted around it, he could've sworn he'd heard voices calling from the other side.
To think that falling through the Veil had transported him…wherever he was…
"Humph. And how did this accident happen, again?" Madame Dufor asked, poking and prodding Harry with her wand. "Perhaps there's something I missed."
"We have an exam tomorrow, and one of the concepts covered in it is spell deflection. Harry and I were practicing, when suddenly, one of my spells slipped through and hit the wall behind him. We chose to use Salle room, so the spell bounced and impacted him in the back," Fleur recounted for what felt like the trillionth time. If her annoyed expression was any indication, Harry wagered that Madame Dufor would do well to remember the details this time, "And since that moment, he seems to be playing the role of un amnésique."
"What spell did you use?" Madame Dufor asked. "Please, be precise. It's very important."
"Viprion," Fleur intoned, her accent strengthening, "I highly doubt this has any bearing, madame. The spell creates little more than a small, fist-shaped manifestation of magical energy. It's used to deliver a playful, harmless punch- not cause…this."
"Be that as it may, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Potter is still suffering some effects, no?" Madame Dufor replied sternly. "The spell may have impacted him in just the right spot, or there may have been some other backlash involved. We have no choice but to notify his parents. We cannot move further without them, as their son is currently incapable of consenting to further medical procedures. Please remain with him while I contact them."
"My…parents?" Harry spoke, not trusting his own voice. His heart clenched at the thought, "Did that woman just say…parents?"
"Mon dieu," Fleur frowned, her expression a mixture between concern and shock, "You aren't joking?"
"I'm not joking," Harry confirmed. He debated telling Fleur the truth, but eventually settled on, "Everything feels…wrong. My memories don't make sense."
"It will be okay, Harry," Fleur patted his shoulder. For the first time in the whole encounter, she looked kind of…scared? "It has to be."
Obligatory start-of-fic Author's Note:
Yeah, yeah, I know- another story!
"But Maroon, don't you have that Naruto story? Aren't you going to make a side story for TFOAC? What about that one Flash story you said you'd get around to finishing?"
Yes- yes, dear reader, I am going to do all those things. Eventually. Probably. Hopefully. But to be quite honest, this was one of those ideas that just wouldn't stop bouncing around in my head. And I firmly believe that if you don't let those bouncing around ideas go and put them into print, they'll keep tormenting you forever and ever and all that dramatic stuff. Who knows how much I'll update this, but…
I blame Sapper One. I honestly never saw myself writing a story like this. Time-travel/Harry-gets-tossed-in-a-different-world HP fics are a guilty pleasure of mine, to read, but I never thought I'd have the urge to write one, mainly because they all seem to follow a similar formula. Yet, when I read Sapper One's story, Whiskey Time Travel it felt like his characterization of Harry was the right blend of feel-good humor and an actual plot. Reading that story made me get some ideas of my own, and I reached out to him to ask if I could write a similar-ish story.
Now, I don't know how similar it will be, but all credit for the idea does indeed go to him. If you haven't read his story, you're missing out. I think it has everything you'd want from a Time Travel fic, and then some. It's my ideal kind of HP fic.
Though, I suppose, this is a mix of time-travel and reality-jumping, so do what that information what you will.
Please give me your honest thoughts! Peace!