I sadly don't own Harry Potter or any of its associated characters. I only have my own characters and ideas.
This chapter was really difficult to get together. It took a whole lot of reworking and I'm still not stoked about it. But hope that people still like it. Please leave any feedback or reviews.
Harry took in the woman in front of him —she was tall and composed, with an air of authority that matched the commanding tone he had heard moments earlier. She appeared to be in her thirties, with sharp, aristocratic features framed by sleek, jet-black hair that fell just past her shoulders. She wore a long, full skirt in muted green, paired with a pale white petticoat and matching green gloves. She reminded Harry of the haughty portraits in Grimmauld Place—those with icy expressions and even colder intentions. Despite the smile on her lips, something about it felt off, as if it were a foreign expression she had only recently learned to mimic. The world around her flickered uncontrollably, the vibrant beach dissolving into a stuttering image of a sterile, white room. Each flicker left a residue of static in the air, as if reality itself was struggling to hold its shape. Harry forced himself to remain calm, keeping his voice steady as he demanded, "Who…who are you? What's happening?"
The woman regarded him, her expression unreadable. A tense moment passed between them, as if she was weighing what, if anything, to reveal. Maybe she was trying to decide whether all of this was worth the effort. With a resigned sigh, she nodded, her eyes reflecting a weary determination. "Harry," she began softly, though urgency edged her voice. "You're not where you think you are. And we don't have much time. We mean you no harm, but... you're already dead." She grimaced, realizing too late that this wasn't the way she had intended to break the news.
"W-what?" Harry gasped. "That's impossible—I'm fine." He poked at his own body, as if trying to prove to himself that he was still solid, still real. But a corner of his mind - somewhere in the newly discovered void - rebelled. But are you? a voice in his mind taunted. How would you even know? Harry's pulse quickened, a cold sweat breaking out as panic began to tighten its grip once more. The cracking sound of thunder echoed above, jolting Harry's already frayed nerves. The woman's shoulders drooped noticeably, as if the sound carried with it a weight she could barely bear.
"Let's get you out of here," she said, extending her hand toward him as if approaching a skittish animal. "Hopefully, that will clear some things up."
Harry had never enjoyed wizarding travel—Apparition and Floo Powder were uncomfortable enough on a good day. But this...this was something entirely different. It felt as though invisible hands were tearing at him from all directions, each pull making him dizzier, the violent shaking only adding to his nausea. By the time he arrived, he wasn't sure if he was still in one piece.
When he finally opened his eyes—still queasy from the nauseating journey—he found himself in an ethereal white room dominated by two large devices. One side of the room was dominated by a massive cylindrical machine, its surface bristling with wires and cables. A narrow, rectangular monitor blinked with unreadable data, while inside the tube, a padded bed lay eerily empty. The whole apparatus had a menacing, clinical air, as if it belonged in a place where comfort was a mere afterthought. The other device was a collection of wires and boxes, one of which was flashing various colours. The contraption was alien to him, though it vaguely reminded him of the computer Uncle Vernon had once complained about when it was introduced at the office.
Sitting in front of the machine, tapping away at one of the consoles, was a tall, lanky man who seemed to be made of about seventy percent limbs. He must have had the desk he sat at built around him because Harry couldn't imagine any other way for the man to have negotiated himself into the cramped space he occupied. Behind him stood the woman from earlier, half-listening to the man's ramblings while keeping a concerned eye on Harry.
"The drain on the sector is dropping sharply. Whatever that last spike was, it seems to have been the worst of it," the man continued, speaking over his shoulder to her. He seemed unaware that he was being ignored as he rapidly scanned various charts and walls of text.
"Looking at these numbers, though, it's gone in the complete opposite direction—it's almost worryingly low and still dropping. Shit, Alma, I don't know if you put him to sleep or knocked him out." Harry mentally filed away what seemed to be the woman's name. "But at least we managed to get everything under control without any major problems. As long as nothing else pops up, we can cover everything up without anyone being the wiser."
Alma cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The man, absorbed in his work, glanced back at her, following her gaze to Harry, who was still pale and unsteady from his ordeal. Upon spotting him, the man froze, like a deer caught in headlights. Now that Harry could see his face, the man looked rather average but friendly—except for the shocked, aghast expression he wore. He wore comfortable black jeans and a loud red t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'I'm with Handsome,' an arrow pointing up at his face.
"Alma...he's out of the rig," the man whispered. He hesitated, then glanced down at Harry's attire. "And...he's wearing board shorts."
"Yes, Jacob," Alma replied, exasperation evident as she massaged her temples. "I noticed."