Second Chances Must be Earned
I don't own Harry Potter or Chicago Fire
Harry staggered as Rebecca Dawson, the woman who got killed years before she became a paramedic, let alone a firefighter, pushed him outside the small, tastefully decorated building that represented the current form of the crossroads, paused on a small balcony. The ledge overlooked a blank white space, with several distorted images of possible return hovering, presumably for Harry to return for the seventh time.
"Remember, Potter," Dawson scowled, gripping his shoulder so tightly he feared it would crack, "Second chances must be earned."
She kicked him off the ledge.
Harry yelled in shock more than fear as he dropped at a decidedly unsafe velocity,* twisting to reach a relative 'upright' posture.
His heartbeat gradually stabilized as his freefall slowed, though not enough to ensure his safety.
The image representing first year approached his destination at a measured pace, the tableau of a small dark-haired boy huddled under a so-called blanket (rag) sending a surge of grief and anger through his being.
A branch extending from a large tree waved lazily in a non-existent breeze, resembling the legend of Yggdrasil, a pagan legend of the World Tree, which had no place in the afterlife, yet here it was, threatening to cut short his efforts to make things right.
Bloody Dawson! Harry snarled, internally using every curse word he knew. It's not enough that I get blamed for being brainwashed by Dumb-the-door, now I'm going to be killed before the proverbial Quidditch match even starts.
If he didn't fade from existence following impalement by a sharp piece of wood, Dawson, the main reaper, perhaps even Snape would happily use the pickax from earlier to finish the job. Which meant that he was screwed.
Harry recited the incantation and movements for conjuring complex objects, hoping to create something to save the situation.
To his relief, the hilt of a Nimbus 2000 materialized in his grip, the first reliable broom he rode since his return to the wizarding world.
To his dismay, the only reliable return point that he could see currently was that of himself, shortly before third year, as usual mowing the lawn with no water under the blazing sun.
I'll make do, Harry mused grimly, pointed his broom directly towards the image.
Suddenly a breeze shifted him slightly off course, sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears.
Dawson! Harry yelled, the volume of his mental voice would surely make Snape proud, despite how much he despised him. If I see you again, I'll …
"… kill you bloody bitch!" Harry screamed, several bruises he'd received from falling off the ladder throbbing, but not enough to stave off his anger. 'Ya daft nugget!' he added, remembering McGonagall's frequent rants after Fred and George's pranks. His insults continued to escalate in both volume and creativity, coming to his senses after a hard twist brought him back to reality, gazing into Uncle Vernon's angriest puce and white face. He'd obviously heard every word.
'Oh dear, we are in trouble,' he recalled Filch's words as he loomed in glee in the shadows of Hogwart's many corridors, hoping that both he and Ron would be expelled. 'Mark my words Potter,' Lucius Malfoy's voice ran at the front of his mind, hair askew and eyes narrowed in rage, 'One day soon, you'll come to the same sticky end.' Well, nice knowing you life, Harry thought sadly, knowing the walrus would kill him for yelling in front of the entire neighborhood, even though no one was around.
Maybe I'll drop a building on Dawson's face if I see her again!* Harry suddenly mused, thoughts shifting savagely. If he survived, that is.
* Reference of Picard's remarks to Data as they evaded an alien attack in Star Trek Nemesis
* "This is for dropping a building on my face!" Crossbone's retort as he pulled a blade on Captain America in Captain America: Civil War