-- Simply Complicated --

Chapter Two
What One Might Call a Shock

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Thump. Thump. Thump.

Screaming… being ripped limb from limb… crashing… ankle throbbing… hazy figures of people hovering over the bed... potions… tingling… sleeping… sleeping…

Sleeping.

Harry opened his eyes and his brain registered four things: He could see nothing but white; His glasses weren't on his face; Every part of his body – his arms, his legs, his fingers, his knees, his ears – felt as though they had been individually subjected to the Cruciatus Curse; and finally, nobody was holding his hand.

The last item may not have seemed important to anyone who didn't know him, but to Harry it meant that his family hadn't been alerted to where he was. Ginny was always there by his bedside in St. Mungo's, waiting anxiously for him to regain consciousness. The fact that she wasn't there helped his foggy brain clear itself, and try to assess the situation.

If he wasn't at St. Mungo's, there were two possibilities: The Lestranges had captured him with that horrible orange spell, or, more likely with all the white, he was dead. Neither of those possibilities was particularly inviting.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry made an attempt to sit up. Blinking rapidly, he was just able to lift his shoulder blades before his muscles ceased to function. Gravity pulled him back down again, and the sudden contact made him groan in pain. He inwardly cursed himself for letting his vocal chords do so: The longer the Lestranges – because he knew now that he couldn't be dead if he could feel such pain – thought he was incapacitated, the better.

One thing, however, confused him. His back had come into contact with something soft, like a bed; Death Eaters wouldn't treat him to a bed. They would throw him roughly into a stone cell, most likely with painful charms on it should one attempt to escape. This felt like a bed, with pillows, in a hospital, none of which would be found in close proximity of the Lestranges.

Harry heard footsteps as he stared blindly upward. "Oh, good, you're awake," said a brisk voice. He felt his glasses being slid gently onto the bridge of his nose. He blinked a few more times to regain his vision, and when he did, he gained no answers to the numerous questions he had bouncing around his head and many, many more queries.

Madam Pomfrey was hovering above him, looking much younger than she had the last time Harry had seen her. She checked his pulse on his left wrist, then moved around to the other side of his bed to look at his other arm, which he noticed was wrapped in gauze.

"Nearly healed," she muttered as she felt it, giving slight squeezes of pressure to assess it and making Harry wince each time she did so. Pomfrey remained oblivious to this, however, too busy looking him over to notice.

"The headmaster wants to speak to you," she told him; she did not look at his face. Without a second glance at him, she turned around and walked back to her office, the door closing with a snap. The snap had not died away when the main doors to the hospital wing opened, crashing against the wall with a boom.

Harry had seen many strange things in his life, but nothing, not even Ron and Hermione deciding to suck face in the middle of a battle to the death, could prepare him for this: Albus Dumbledore was striding toward him.

He rubbed his eyes. He was hallucinating, he had to be. The Lestranges had put a spell on him, making his brain project images that couldn't possibly be real. Albus Dumbledore was dead – Harry had seen the green light of Snape's Killing Curse illuminate the man's wrinkled face, watched him topple backwards over the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, watched him fall, fall… He'd seen Dumbledore's body lay twisted and broken, he'd seen his portrait appear in the headmaster's office. Albus Dumbledore was, by all accounts, dead, yet here he was, hands folded and looking at him with polite interest.

"Good afternoon, sir," said Dumbledore.

Harry's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He cleared his throat and shook his head. Be an Auror! his brain screeched at him. You are Harry Potter, aren't you? He needed to get his act together. This was, after all, a trick.

"Hello," said Harry, trying to sound at least somewhat confused, which, in all reality, wasn't too hard. "Excuse me, but… what happened?" Good job! said his brain, a little sarcastically. Get some answers!

Dumbledore's silver eyebrows rose. "How much do you remember?"

"Er… nothing," said Harry, fake-sheepishly. He remembered quite clearly the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, and the other spell Rodolphus had placed on him that acted like a dementor. He could recall vividly Ron's limp, lifeless form, eyes beginning to go glassy and unseeing...

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Well, from what I have been told, you were seen spinning rapidly above the Quidditch pitch, and then crashed down to the ground. Our gamekeeper found you and brought you here."

Harry nodded. That made sense… kind of. Not really. But it was what he had to go on. The Lestranges knew Hogwarts was where he felt safest – they must have forgotten his age, though, if everyone looked this much younger.

"Now," said Dumbledore, with a certain edge to his voice, "why don't you answer the question correctly?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Sir?"

"My friend, I may be old, but I am no fool."

Harry grimaced. Biting his lip, he cast around for something that would give him more information about his situation. He would need it if he wanted to play along, and, in turn, stay alive.

"What's your favorite jam flavor?" he blurted.

"Raspberry," answered Dumbledore, easily hiding his shock. Harry could see something in his eyes change. The hardened look in them dissipated slightly, and the ever-present twinkle brightened. "The question, sir."

Harry swallowed, glancing around nervously. He saw his wand on the bedside table and snatched it up, casting Muffliato on all of the walls of the wing. He was positive now: There was no way out of this, and things here may not be what he suspected; his heart was beginning to thump wildly. Could it be…?

"I don't want to be overheard," he said, in response to the headmaster's questioning and suspicious glance. He took a deep breath; talking to a dead person was nowhere near his definition of fun.

"I'm an Auror," he began, "and today my squad and I went after Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, in an abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley where we believed they had been hiding out. Well… we found them. We fought, and the other five in my squad were knocked out. I was –"

"Put under the Cruciatus Curse, broke your arm, yes," finished Dumbledore, nodding. "I am aware. Continue."

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "Eventually, it was just me fighting them together. My leg gave out, and they cast a spell on me. It was orange, and… the pain…" He pushed that memory out of the way. "Now… I'm here."

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "I see."

There was an awkward silence, during which Harry paled to match the Bloody Baron, and Dumbledore looked the most contemplative Harry was sure he had ever seen him.

"Professor," started Harry, at the same time Dumbledore said, "If I may –" They chuckled uncomfortably. "Go ahead, sir," said Harry.

"No, that's quite alright," said Dumbledore.

Harry grinned mischievously, trying to cover up his blatant fear. "Age before beauty, Professor."

Dumbledore laughed, his mustache quirking upward as the only sign that he was smiling. "You have a very witty sense of humor, Mr. …"

Harry stiffened. That was it, the final clue. Not even the Lestranges could make an illusion that was this close to Dumbledore. This Dumbledore in front of him was absolutely, one hundred percent authentic, complete with the familiar, welcome feeling of being x-rayed through the half-moon spectacles.

He swallowed, sure that he was about to get a wand stuck nearly up his nose. "Potter, sir. Harry Potter."

Dumbledore's expression did not change. Harry saw his hand tense discreetly, ready at any moment to reach for his wand. The Elder Wand, Harry realized suddenly. Would it still recognize him as its master, even if he was where he thought he was?

"I did not know that the Potters had another relative," said Dumbledore mildly.

Harry gave a small smile that resembled a painful grimace more than anything else. "They – er – don't, sir."

Faster than he could blink, there was, indeed, a wand pointed directly between his eyes.

"Am I to assume, then," said Dumbledore, "that you are a Death Eater in disguise? That you are here to spy on me, on the orders of Lord Voldemort?"

Harry knew that Dumbledore was testing him; if he flinched, it would be a sure sign that he was a Death Eater; if he didn't, it would clear him. He wanted to smack himself: He had stiffened at the mere accusation of being a Death Eater, and to someone who noticed small things like that – someone who was Dumbledore – it was as good as a confession.

"Show me your arm."

Harry rolled up his left sleeve, noticing that he was still wearing his Auror robes. They were still covered in Ron's blood, and a little bit of his own. Not helping, he thought, a little desperate.

Dumbledore nodded once, somewhat disappointed that there was no Dark Mark. Harry was just about to shake his sleeve back down when the headmaster said quickly, "Wait. What is that?"

Harry looked at his arm again. In the middle of his forearm, there was a thin, white, ovular mark. He rubbed his other hand over it; it was a rougher patch of skin than the rest of his arm, courtesy of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny… he thought painfully. He had to get his answer soon. If he was here… If he couldn't get back…

"Snake bite," said Harry. He allowed Dumbledore to use Legilimency, but thought of Nagini and only Nagini, on that horrible night in Godric's Hollow. Dumbledore seemed satisfied and pulled out of his thoughts with a heavy sigh.

"Professor, please – listen to me –"

But Harry didn't know what he wanted Dumbledore to listen to. He didn't know what to say. Dumbledore looked at him with a much softer gaze (Harry couldn't exactly call it "softer" – "less hard," perhaps).

"I – I –"

He sat up further, grunting in pain; he was highly aware that Dumbledore's wand was still out, and that his gaze was still untrusting. He shook his head a few times, covering his face with his hands. How could he ask this question without sounding like he belonged in a straitjacket?

Ron's voice came back to him: "…I'd think he was a complete nutter, and it turns out he's right."

Maybe, just maybe, this was crazy enough to work; Maybe Dumbledore would understand his hint, maybe he would work out the hidden meaning behind the words. Maybe he could retain his sanity. Maybe… maybe there were too many maybes in his life for anything to go right at all.

"Professor Dumbledore, what year is it?"

Harry held his breath.

When the older man next opened his mouth to speak, he said only three words, and none of them were altogether surprising. He did not ask how Harry knew his name – he was, after all, one of the most famous wizards ever to have walked the face of the earth – and he did not seem at all shocked by the question. He also did not find it odd that he had to give his answer.

"August of 1977."

Harry felt all of the air vanish from his lungs. His last hope – maybe it really was an illusion – had just been clubbed over the head with a metal bat, kicked, stomped on, and burned to the ground. This had just gone against the laws of the universe. Sure, Time-Turners existed (and the Department of Mysteries had rebuilt their stock), but they were only good for a few hours, not more than two decades.

He felt lightheaded. The room was twisting and spinning, but he could see perfectly fine. He couldn't breathe. His heart was pumping so fast he might have just run a marathon. This was not possible. He blinked, again and again and again, as though it would clear his vision.

Dumbledore handed him a glass of water, which, instead of drinking, Harry poured over his head. He looked at the headmaster again.

"I see some of my suspicions were correct."

Harry would have loved to ask, "Which ones? The one where I'm a Death Eater, or the one where I travel twenty years into the past?" but his voice wasn't working, nor could he get enough air into his lungs to even complete a sentence, so he remained silent.

"Your name really is Harry Potter?"

Harry nodded.

"And am I correct in guessing that James Potter is your father?"

A jerky move of the head that could pass for a nod.

Dumbledore looked at him more closely.

"And Lily Evans is your mother?"

It was just barely a twitch that gave any indication this time. He was too used to people saying, "James Potter was your father," and, "Lily Evans was your mother". Now… they were alive. They still existed, they still walked and talked and lived, and they were still making the memories that Remus and Sirius told him about.

Dumbledore was still watching him. He was obviously waiting for Harry to say something, but Harry still couldn't find the words to describe the icy, terrifying fist of fear that had his insides in an iron grip.

It was hitting him like a hammer to the head. So many people here were still alive. His parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore – his thoughts turned onto a darker path – Pettigrew, Bellatrix, Greyback… Voldemort.

Harry fought down the vomit that had suddenly decided to climb its way up his throat. No, he couldn't be here, not now. He couldn't deal with a world in terror like this… He couldn't deal with having Voldemort out there, killing, torturing. He couldn't simply hole himself up in the Department of Mysteries, looking for a way to get back home, when he was still the only one who could defeat Voldemort. He couldn't go after him again – once was enough. He couldn't handle the pressure of finding the Horcruxes – but he couldn't just sit back and let the Darkest wizard of all time take innocent lives!

This, above everything that had ever happened to him, was too much. Being the cause of two people's deaths, going through all of the emotional turmoil he had, he could handle. This? No. He couldn't take this, not now. Not when things in his time were the way they were.

He gripped the sheets of his bed so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt himself swaying slightly and steadied himself, trying to keep composure. He sucked in a deep breath, and then another.

Breathe, he chanted internally. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Harry gave up. He let his head fall back and pressed his hands into his face. He felt his heart rate begin to steady – his mind was slowly and steadily emptying, leaving a blissful, gaping hole of no feeling, no thought. He didn't have to swirl possibilities and problems around in his head. He could just sit there, forever, until he was born, and be. Just exist, in an endless pit of nothingness.

"Harry?"

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes again.

Dumbledore had obviously grown tired of waiting for an answer, which, had he not been in such shock, would have surprised Harry; Albus Dumbledore as he remembered him was a very patient man.

"Do you think you could –"

Madam Pomfrey had opened her office door again and was making her way over to Harry's bed. She stopped short when she saw the headmaster was still present.

"Oh." She seemed flustered. "Headmaster. I'll just –"

"No, no, it's quite alright, Poppy," said Dumbledore with a small smile, standing. He did not leave the hospital wing. "I was just wondering if you could check on our friend here and see if he would be well enough to accompany me to my office."

Pomfrey blinked a couple of times. "Of course, sir. I'll be just a moment."

She helped Harry to get wobbly to his feet. She felt his arm again, cast a few spells, and warned him, glaring, that he'd better take it easy or he'd be hearing about it. Harry swallowed and nodded, but stopped, because it made his head hurt again. He hadn't realized how much hard he had hit it on the back of the bed.

Harry's leg was still very sore, making him and Dumbledore have to go much slower than they usually would have. Once or twice he had to pause, not so much as to stop limping as to remember a spot where someone had been injured or killed in the final battle. Even now, nearly seven years later, the ghosts still haunted him…

Harry didn't let himself think any more while the two of them were walking (and it was much harder than usual; the trip must have taken at least twice as long). He simply stared ahead, plunging the halls into silence except for the sound of their shoes hitting the stone floors. He didn't even crack a grin when Dumbledore said jovially, "Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans" as a password.

The room looked just as it would in a couple of decades, though it was lacking two portraits: One of Snape, which Harry had fought the Ministry to have made and put up, and one of the wizard in front of him.

"Sit," said Dumbledore, sternly but not unkindly. Harry did so, careful of his leg and trying to make it feel like he was only visiting McGonagall, and Dumbledore's portrait was talking to him. It didn't work as well as he would have liked.

Dumbledore didn't say anything else for a few moments, letting Harry get a hold of himself. As if worrying about things back home wasn't bad enough, he thought.

"So, Harry," said Dumbledore, looking like he would rather not have been the one to start the conversation. He obviously thought it was would be odd to introduce himself to someone who had most likely already met him, but he didn't know Harry. Harry had to agree.

"Am I to assume that I am, perhaps, dead, in your time?"

Harry gave a little start. He hadn't expected Dumbledore to guess so soon, let alone at all.

He swallowed again, this time past a lump in his throat. "Yes, sir."

"I see," said Dumbledore, more dramatically sorrowful than Harry could ever have imagined. "I do hope it was peacefully, in my sleep."

Harry's eyes flashed. He wished they wouldn't. It always gave away how he felt.

Ever since the end of the final battle, Harry had been protecting everyone who had died, most of all Dumbledore and Snape. "Without Dumbledore, I'd be dead. Voldemort wouldn't be." That was always his argument. Sometimes "Dumbledore" was just exchanged for "Snape."

He clung to that memory, however odd it may have been, because it was the first time George had cracked a joke or even a smile since Fred had died. "Sounding like a broken record there, Harry," he had said dully, the faintest glimmer of amusement returning to his eyes. Harry had beamed at him, while George's mother had seized him in a tearful hug.

"I wouldn't say so, sir," said Harry, wishing his voice would calm itself. "You did more than you give yourself credit for."

There was a pause.

"I haven't exactly done it yet, though, I suppose," said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"Well, that's time travel," said Harry, giving a half-hearted shrug. He wasn't sure his head could take much more of this.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, leaning forward in his seat and placing his hands, folded, upon his desk, "indeed it is time travel. We need to find you a way home. What was the spell the Lestranges used on you?"

Harry heard the disappointment in Dumbledore's voice when he said "Lestranges." He remembered the way he had done the same thing when Voldemort had shown up looking for a job.

He struggled to recall exactly what the incantation was. His heart had been racing with fear, and his actions had been controlled by his instincts… His ears really hadn't been paying attention to what was going on…

"Temporalius," he said, suddenly sure of it. "They pointed their wands at me after they moved the rest of my squad out of the way, and shouted 'Temporalius.'"

"Ah," said Dumbledore gravely, nodding. "I have heard of that spell. It is very rare, and I believe it can only be found in the Darkest of spellbooks."

"Which would explain why nobody I know will ever have heard of it," added Harry, thinking of Hermione, but he stopped quickly. It was painful. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that things couldn't be so convenient in his life.

Dumbledore seemed pleased that Harry didn't associate himself with any Death Eaters or the like. "Yes, well, from what I understand, it is a time-travel spell that was meant to be used on the first Time-Turners, but was declared illegal when its creator, Demeter Dialga, vanished when she performed it for a crowd to prove it worked – which it obviously didn't."

Had Harry not been in 1977, he may have remarked that he didn't come for a History of Magic lesson, but he just clenched his teeth, hoping he could trap his terror between them.

"The spell was also declared illegal because it is very, very painful for use of a living thing," said Dumbledore.

"No, really?" said Harry sarcastically, making a show of shifting so that his back screamed in pain again. He regretted his tone, but he knew he had always used anger and scathing comments to relieve his stress.

Dumbledore looked neither offended nor surprised. He simply sighed deeply, and finished with the words Harry hoped with all his heart would not be spoken: "In short, there is no way for us to get you back to your time."

Harry nodded once, trying not to let it show that he wanted to throw himself off the Astronomy Tower. He couldn't live in a world without anyone from his time, not a single living soul –

And again he stopped his train of thought. His parents were alive here… Sirius, Remus... they were all alive… Very soon, they would be coming here, to Hogwarts… But how could he get to know them if they would be in classes? It wasn't like he could come back for his seventh year – he didn't need to or want to – he would stick out like a Death Eater at an Order meeting.

Then a thought came to him – an insane, crazy, impossible idea that scared him just as much as the prospect of defeating Voldemort a second time did, an idea that was so horrible yet so genius that Harry thought his head would explode if he even began to know what he was talking about. He was hardly aware that Dumbledore was watching again, but he knew the manic glint in his eye sparked noticeably.

"Professor," started Harry slowly, "you wouldn't… happen to be in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, would you?"

Dumbledore peered keenly at him over the top of his half-moon spectacles, eyebrows raised slightly. Harry could see a grin inexplicably unfolding under the mass of white beard.

"What are your qualifications?"

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Oh. My. God. You have NO idea how bad I feel, and I am SO not kidding. It's more than a f***ing month late, going on two. Every time I saw it added to alert, or favorite, I felt a little sick to my stomach, seriously.

So here's what happened: My computer got a virus. Wouldn't work for about two and a half weeks, and then, just when it got working again, our power went out. Because it snowed. It snowed in Texas. It was INSANE. And then I thought it was working again, but it wasn't. And then I just, sorta… procrastinated.

Here's my new updating deal: At least once a month, but hopefully more often. I'm going to try to get another one in this month to make up for February. Spring break is coming up, so that'll be a good chance.

One last thing: Two little contests in this one. If you can tell me which show this – "an idea so… genius that Harry thought his head would explode if he even began to know what he was talking about." – is copied from almost word for word, you get a virtual cookie. If you can tell me from what I got "Demeter Dialga" from – two different things – you also get a virtual cookie. If you get both, you get a virtual cheesecake. Yum!

Again, sooooooo so so so so so sorry! You have no idea!

(The Harry Potter series is owned by J.K. Rowling and all of the bajillions of people that helped her publish, edit, etc., the books. If I had a dollar for every book I have published, and it was my only money, I would be broke. I am not making money off of this story, although it would be really awesome if I were.)