THE STARS ARE DIFFERENT HERE
Chapter Three: Endless Night into Morning
Harry crossed the room without the awareness he was doing so, not until he'd come to a stop in front of Professor Dumbledore's portrait.
"There are others?" he croaked out. "Others like me?"
Professor Dumbledore didn't respond straight away. Then, very gently, he said, "I believe so, yes." Before Harry could question him further, he went on. "But first I wish to hear your story, Harry, and the events that brought you to us."
Darkness had long since settled across Hogwarts and its grounds. Harry didn't own a watch, but he knew it must be well past midnight. The two professors listened stoically, occasionally stepping in with questions of clarity, or remarking on differences in their respective worlds.
Most of these changes seemed to be minor. Professor Flitwick didn't teach Charms here, but instead History of Magic; it seems Professor Binns had been gently persuaded to hold occasional, sparsely-attended lectures, though he was still known to wander the castle, reciting a never-ending monologue of dates and names whether he had an audience or not. Professor Burbage taught Charms, who Harry was vaguely aware of as a middle-aged witch he remembered being the Muggle Studies teacher.
Other changes were larger. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall both seemed surprised when Harry recanted the events of his first year, mainly because the Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed some fifteen years earlier.
"Destroyed?" Harry repeated blankly. "But- but Nicolas Flamel-"
"It was Nicolas's decision," Professor Dumbledore explained gently. "And his wife's, Perenelle. They knew Lord Voldemort's- my apologies, Minerva," he said when Professor McGonagall blanched, but continued on all the same. "They knew Lord Voldemort was aware of the Stone's existence, and of his rapid rise to power. They were concerned of what might happen if the Stone fell into his hands. Both Nicolas and Perenelle discussed the matter at length, and they both concluded they'd lived extremely long and fulfilling lives."
And so vault seven hundred and thirteen lay empty, its owners long since deceased. Similarly, the passage below Hogwarts remained free from the series of obstacles meant to trap the Stone's potential thief.
"A rather risky decision," Professor McGonagall commented, locking eyes with Professor Dumbledore's portrait. "An incredibly risky decision, luring You-Know-Who into the school, especially when students- children- were present."
Professor Dumbledore smiled, but his gaze seemed far away as he pondered this. "My dear Minerva, I hope you don't blame me for actions I personally did not oversee." His focus seemed to snap back into place; still smiling, he added, "I might add that the Professor McGonagall Harry remembers was well aware of this arrangement, and perhaps even a willing participant. Was that a sentient chessboard I heard tell of?"
Professor McGonagall's cheeks reddened, but she didn't look away as she acknowledged, "Point taken."
Harry didn't know what to make of the Stone already being gone. On one hand, it was one less thing to worry about, one less attempt on his life. On the other, it was a failed opportunity to thwart Voldemort while he was still weakened, and perhaps even finish him off once and for all.
On and on he spoke, telling the story of his second year and the Chamber of Secrets, of his third year and the escape of Sirius Black.
"He's innocent," Harry explained, leaning forward with his elbows digging into his knees. "Peter Pettigrew was the real Secret Keeper. They switched at the last minute. He's the one who found Voldemort my fourth year, who helped him come back."
They had loads of questions about that, both about Sirius Black's innocence and Voldemort's return. Harry did his best to answer them, repeating several times over the events leading to Sirius's escape, as well as what came after, all the way up to trying to rescue him from the Department of Mysteries, up to the haze that seemed to separate his memories of the past (the future?) and this new world.
Food had appeared at some point, and Harry knew he must be making a spectacle of himself, shoving food in his mouth and talking at the same time, the half-touched plate of dinner from Aunt Petunia seeming to have been a lifetime ago. If Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were put off by his rather Dudley-like display, they didn't let on at all, Professor McGonagall occasionally refilling his plate or goblet with a wave of her wand.
Harry had no idea what time it was when he finally fell silent. He'd covered everything as best he could, but he knew volumes were capable of being filled with the things he'd missed, that he could talk forever and still not convey everything.
"You've been through a great deal," Professor McGonagall said, her back slightly hunched but her gaze steady, "For such a young age."
"I'm not as young as I look, if that helps." Harry shrugged. "I'm fifteen, nearly sixteen."
"Which, too, is an terribly young age for the burden that has been placed on your shoulders," Professor Dumbledore said, as Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement.
Harry shrugged again, not knowing what to say- Yeah, it's been rotten?
That was true, some of the time, like the various times the entire school had suddenly turned on him, or the occasions in which he'd been forced to face down Voldemort. But the rest of the time, when he wasn't hated, when his life wasn't in immediate peril... Harry thought of Hogwarts, and its vast, beautiful grounds. Of winning the Quidditch Cup his third year, of celebrations in the Great Hall. Of long afternoons without classes spent with Ron and Hermione wandering around the lake.
The more he thought about it, the more he ached to go back.
The room was swimming before him. Harry's eyes were heavy; he tried desperately to blink away the fatigue.
"It's very late," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "I suspect this conversation would best be continued in the morning."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Professor Dumbledore nodded. "You must forgive me, Harry. I sleep a great deal these days, though I don't physically need to. It's easy to forget the requirements of a human body when one is no longer bound by their needs."
Professor McGonagall added, "Your relatives have been notified that you will stay at the castle tonight."
As much as Harry wanted to keep talking, even he knew how tired he was. Reluctantly he said, "Let me ask you something first, Professor."
She nodded. "Of course, Mr. Potter."
"Can you send me back? I mean, are you even able to?" Harry hesitated- it seemed to say this next part aloud would make it true, as opposed to it only existing as a shadowy possibility in the back of his mind, only as true as other half-imagined fears. "You said there are others like me. Did they... Am I stuck here forever?"
Professor McGonagall stared at him for a very long moment, then she turned to Professor Dumbledore, both of them silent, before returning her gaze to Harry.
"I don't know," she said at last. "But I promise you from the bottom of my heart that we will do whatever we can to help you."
Harry slept that night in Gryffindor Tower. Professor McGonagall had offered him one of Hogwarts furnished rooms for guests, but he was desperate for a bit of familiarity. Much like the world he'd found himself in, this proved to be half the case. The common room was mostly as Harry remembered, though some of its proportions seemed off. There were slumbering portraits he didn't recall from before, and the fireplace was slightly smaller, but the rest of it was- well, it was close enough, he supposed.
The dorms were the same as they always were at the start of term, though Harry suspected this was only because there were no students to make them look any different. The beds were neatly made, the walls free from decorations and posters.
"If you need anything, simply say my name," Professor McGonagall told him, standing in the doorway of the dormitory. "I will hear it."
Harry nodded, too tired to formulate words, and then she was gone.
A folded set of pyjamas sat at the foot of the four-poster bed. Harry pulled them on, then tossed himself on top of the thick blanket.
He'd expected to fall asleep instantly, but his body refused to obey, his mind too full of conflicting thoughts to allow him even the slightest bit of rest.
Dumbledore was dead?
It didn't seem possible. He was, as far as Harry was concerned, the greatest wizard of all time- he'd half-expected him to live forever, not die unceremoniously from dragon pox of all things.
No, Harry thought, he just couldn't wrap his mind around Dumbledore being gone, especially since he wasn't really gone. He'd just spent hours talking to him, hadn't he? Harry knew ghosts and portraits were somehow different to living people, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been the same room together, separated only by a simple frame and a bit of canvas.
The haze that had hovered over Harry for much of his time at the Dursleys' had finally faded, but his thoughts were no less jumbled.
Rain pattered lightly against the windows of Gryffindor Tower. Harry closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was in his old body, not this younger, smaller one. This was just a typical night at Hogwarts. They had Double Potions with Slytherin tomorrow, and he still hadn't finished his homework. He'd have to copy off Hermione tomorrow morning over breakfast. She'd complain, but she'd let him do it, just as she always did eventually. Leaning deeper into the fantasy, Harry imagined he could hear Ron snoring loudly from the next bed over.
Ron wasn't snoring, though, and when Harry opened his eyes he found himself in the same empty dormitory, just as alone as he'd been moments before.
Could he trust them?
The thought came to Harry the moment he woke up. Despite it taking hours to fall asleep, it was still early when he stirred. He sat up slowly, much more refreshed than he had been, despite the short amount of time he'd actually spent unconscious.
They seemed the same, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, if you didn't take the former being dead into consideration. But things were different here- people were different here. So far this had been for the better (Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were a lot easier to be around, for instance). But that didn't mean every change was bound to be for the better.
Who exactly were the people he'd just told his entire life's story?
They're all right, Harry tried to reassure himself. They'd fought Voldemort in this world too. They'd come to Harry's aid right away when Aunt Petunia reached out. If they were secretly Death Eaters, they'd had the perfect opportunity to off him when they were alone in Dumbledore's- in McGonagall's office, or while he'd slept.
Still, the awareness that everyone he met wasn't entirely who he remembered washed over Harry like a sheet of ice-cold water. It was several moments until he climbed out of bed and found his clothes from the night before washed and folded on the bedside table.
Professor McGonagall was waiting for him in the common room, seated in a comfortable chair next to the slightly-too-small fireplace. In one hand she held a copy of the Daily Prophet, and in the other a cup of tea, both of which she lowered as Harry reached the bottom of the spiral staircase.
"How did you sleep, Mr. Potter?"
Harry lifted a shoulder, then lowered it. "All right, I suppose. Not as long as I thought I would, but it's hard not to think about everything." He paused. "How about you, Professor?"
She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. "Much the same as you, I'm afraid."
With a wave of her wand, a minor feast of breakfast options appeared across the nearest surfaces. "I'm certain you'll find something to suit your tastes."
"Thanks," Harry said, reaching for the fried eggs. He loaded up a plate, stomach growling at the familiar smell of a Hogwarts breakfast. Only once he'd speared a bit of sausage and lifted the fork halfway to his mouth did he pause, his mind flashing back to Professor Umbridge's office, and the tea laced with Veritaserum.
He'd eaten the food McGonagall gave him yesterday and nothing had gone wrong, had it? Aside from him spilling every detail of the past fifteen years, but he'd intended to do that, had been in the process of baring his soul before taking that first bite.
Professor McGonagall was watching him, and he knew he had to do something. He hesitated, and was only spared from having to speak by Professor McGonagall doing so herself.
"I suppose I'll have something as well." She reached for an empty plate, adding to it the same items as Harry's. "We both need our strength, especially after not sleeping well."
He watched as she took a bite, then another. Only then, feeling rather foolish, did he dig into his own untampered food. He kept his eyes on his eggs, unable to look up.
"You've nothing to be embarrassed about," Professor McGonagall said casually, as though they were discussing the weather. "I'd be equally suspicious in your place. With all that's changed for you, I'd be surprised if you weren't questioning everything."
"I should have thought of it last night," Harry muttered, half to himself. "Before I started talking."
"Perhaps. On the other hand, a delayed reaction isn't terribly surprising, given the vast amount of information you've had to take in." Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "You'd benefit from showing yourself some grace, Mr. Potter, and remember the lesson for next time."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle darkly. "What, the next time I'm sucked into an alternate reality, and I meet you?"
"The next time," Professor McGonagall said without missing a beat, "You meet someone you think you already know."
Harry fell silent. He thought of all the introductions and reintroductions that were bound to come. What sort of people were the ones he thought he already knew? And what had happened to his world, and the souls he knew and loved that inhabited it?
"For all I know, everyone here is different." Harry picked at his toast, suddenly not very hungry. "Maybe Hermione hates schoolwork. Maybe Ron sings Mermish operas. How can I know who anyone really is?"
"If it helps, that is a question that plagues those of us with two feet firmly planted in one dimension."
Harry nodded, his gaze shifting to the unfamiliar portraits lining the walls. While they all seemed to be sleeping, he wasn't sure how closely they might be listening.
"They won't speak of this to anyone," Professor McGonagall reassured him. "The portraits may gossip about petty matters, but I would trust the ones in this common room with my very life. They wouldn't be here otherwise."
Harry nodded slowly, watching to see if any of the portraits stirred. None did. A moment passed, and he silently decided he was going to trust Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore.
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said after a moment had passed. "You've mentioned your friend Ron several times."
Harry nodded again. "Ron Weasley. He's my best friend. So is Hermione Granger. You'll like her, she's good at schoolwork, loves it, really. Ron- well, he's a bit more like me, but his marks aren't terrible or anything. Besides, he's a good person. One of the best."
"And Ron is a fifth year, like yourself?"
"Yeah." A strange feeling was settling in Harry's stomach. "You're not about to tell me he's the world's youngest Death Eater here, are you? Sorry," he said, in response to the grave look she gave him. "I'm only joking. But... something's different about him here, isn't there? Is he a Squib? Or is his whole family in Slytherin?"
He knew he was beginning to babble, but if he kept talking, he wouldn't have to know what was wrong with Ron, what new aspect of this reality he'd be forced to accept .
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said at last, her voice heavy. "Arthur and Molly Weasley have five children. None of them are named Ron."
That wasn't right.
"That's not right." Harry shook his head. "The Weasleys have seven children. Ron's the youngest."
Professor McGonagall just looked at him, and Harry felt something slowly begin to break inside him.
There were five Weasley children, two of whom had already finished Hogwarts called Bill and Charlie. Percy came next, followed by the fraternal twins, Fred and Ginevra. There were no children after that.
"But that's not possible." Harry's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his lips moving strangely. "Ron... he existed. He exists. He's... my best friend."
Nothing could have prepared him for this. He could adapt to a world in which curved roads had once been straight, or where Aunt Petunia was, in her own way, somewhat supportive. He could even, given enough time to process it, accept a world in which Professor Dumbledore existed only as a portrait in his former office.
But Ron being gone? Not just dead, but never having existed? With a horrifying lurch, Harry thought to himself that, as far as he knew, the only evidence of his best friend's existence resided solely within his own mind.
But Ron did exist- just because Harry was here didn't mean his old world had simply blinked out of reality. It couldn't have. On the other hand, if his world did still exist, what was happening within it? Had he, Harry, just vanished into thin air? Had his body been taken over by the ten-year-old Harry of this world?
He was on his feet, but with nowhere to go, he found himself simply standing there, fists clenched at his side. He wasn't sure what his body was about to do. Was he going to shout and throw things, as he had last night?
"I'm so sorry." Professor McGonagall was on her feet as well, her tone gentler than he'd ever heard it in either world. "Harry, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."
His eyes were wet. Harry wiped furiously at them with the back of his hand, unable to make eye contact, but he saw Professor McGonagall take a step toward him. For a moment, he half-expected her to embrace him, but she instead simply placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Would you like to tell me about him?"
Harry nodded slowly, and lowered himself back into his armchair, beginning to talk about that first journey on the Hogwarts Express, of the sweets they'd shared, of how Ron's rat had bit Goyle's finger.
"I mean, it's a bit weird to think now that was really a grown man biting Goyle, but I suppose it isn't the strangest thing that's happened on that train..."
He talked about Ron's room at the Burrow, its walls covered with posters of the Chudley Cannons, and of the ghoul in the attic that banged on the pipes and groaned loudly. He told her about the falling out they'd had after Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, but he downplayed how much of a git Ron had been, forgot how angry he himself had been.
"He's the best sort of person to have as your friend," Harry said, unable to bring himself to use the past tense. "Even when we fought, it was never for long. We'd do just about anything for one another."
When he finally fell silent, Professor McGonagall didn't speak straight away, instead seeming to take in everything she'd just been told. At last, she said, "I deeply regret not having the opportunity to meet him."
"You will," Harry said quickly, before logic could convince him otherwise. "We'll figure out a way to make things right- to go back, or bring him here, at least-"
The words felt hollow even has he said them.
Harry sat in Professor McGonagall's office (which he still thought of as Professor Dumbledore's, no matter how hard he tried), facing the former headmaster's portrait.
"I would like to say I hope you slept well, but I imagine that is unlikely even in the most optimistic of scenarios." Professor Dumbledore paused, and when Harry didn't reply, he continued on. "You spent a good deal of time yesterday filling us in on the details of your time and place, and we only partially returned the courtesy. We are both incredibly grateful for your patience."
Harry hadn't felt very patient last night, but he supposed, given the circumstances, only throwing a single book (which was now sitting peacefully back on its shelf), was less than he might have done.
"It seems," Professor Dumbledore said, "It is now time for you to learn of our world, and how we suspect you came to arrive in it."
Harry leaned forward, despite himself. Part of him wanted to tell Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall where they could shove their world- if it didn't have his best mate, he wasn't interested.
What good would that do, though? the little voice in the back of his head asked. If he didn't learn anything about this place, how could he expect to find his way home? After nearly a full year of all but begging to be trusted with important information, it was finally being offered to him.
That, and after so many months being ignored, it felt intensely gratifying to lock eyes with Professor Dumbledore, even if it wasn't really him.
"You said there you were others like me," Harry finally said, straightening up and adding, "Sir."
A nod from both professors.
"Who are they?"
A long pause, then Professor McGonagall spoke up. "There's only one that we know of, aside from you. His name is Sirius Black."
Harry didn't move. Then-
"Harry, when you were in the Department of Mysteries, what is the very last thing you remember?"
Harry blinked at Professor Dumbledore's question, still trying to process the statement that had come before it. "I- I dunno. I- You were there. You showed up, and everyone stopped fighting. Everyone except Sirius and Bellatrix Lestrange." He closed his eyes. Why couldn't he remember what came next? Straining his memory as best he could, a hazy recollection flitted about, and he struggled to grasp it. "He was falling. Sirius was falling, I mean. I'm not sure why. Something... something hit him. I can't remember anything else."
Professor McGonagall exhaled heavily. She folded her hands together and gazed at the spot over Harry's head. "Two years ago, a request came from Azkaban Prison, from one of the inmates. Sirius Black wrote a letter, his first in his many years of incarceration, desperate to speak with Albus Dumbledore."
"Given my rather unfortunate relegation to the realm of the departed, I sent the next best person in my wake," Professor Dumbledore explained, gesturing at Professor McGonagall.
"So- so you already knew he was innocent? He's already been freed?"
"I visited him," Professor McGonagall said quietly, her cheeks oddly flushed. "And he told me the same story as you- of switched Secret Keepers, and of Peter Pettigrew's betrayal. He insisted Pettigrew was living as an unregistered Animagus, disguised as one of the Weasley children's pets."
"You went, didn't you? You didn't just leave him there, right?" Harry asked, unable to keep a slightly accusing tone from creeping into his voice. "You told the Aurors, at least?"
"I did go." Professor McGonagall finally managed to meet his gaze. "As preposterous as it seemed, I did investigate his claims. But..."
"But what? What happened?" Harr's heart sank as he pictured Sirius still locked up in Azkaban- not just any Sirius, but his Sirius.
"As you've observed, there are a multitude of differences between our realities- some larger than others," Professor Dumbledore said gently from his portrait. "Nearly ten years ago, after the terrible deaths of your parents, a confrontation occurred between Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew on a Muggle street. In your world, Peter Pettigrew was believed to be so badly eviscerated that only a single finger remained- a ruse created by Pettigrew in order to fake his own death."
"In our world," Professor McGonagall said, before Harry could speak, "It wasn't just his finger." It was..." She trailed off, suddenly looking rather queasy.
"It was quite dreadful," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "And there was absolutely no doubt in the aftermath from the various remains that Peter Pettigrew was no longer alive."
"He got the spell wrong," Harry murmured, half to himself, his mouth dry. "He only meant to blow off his finger, but he blew up himself instead."
Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall looked at one another, and Harry stared at them, daring them to suggest otherwise.
"I did reach out to the Aurors that very day, and insisted they check the Weasleys' home to be certain," Professor McGonagall said. "I also insisted that I accompany them to see the results for myself." She paused. "Arthur and Molly Weasley were quite surprised by the unexpected raid, as were their children. Particularly given the fact that none of them had ever owned a pet rat."
"So what happened?" Harry asked helplessly. "What did you do?"
"I'd been confronted with what seemed to be a ridiculous story from a madman. There'd never been anyone who'd claimed to be from another reality, not in the manner he was claiming to be. But I told Sirius Black that I would do whatever I could to research what had happened to him, and perhaps, if he was telling the truth, I would be able to prove his innocence. I sincerely meant every word of that promise, and immediately began researching his claims." Professor McGonagall pressed two fingers to her temples. "He escaped from Azkaban less than a week later and hasn't been seen since."
"There are whispers he'd made his way to the Balkans," Professor Dumbledore said. "More recently, to Albania."
"He's been looking for Voldemort." Harry rubbed his own forehead, ignoring Professor McGonagall's flinch. "He's been trying to destroy him while he's still weak." He glanced up at the two professors. "But I'll bet you both thought he's been trying to bring him back, haven't you?"
He was angry, even if he knew he shouldn't be. They'd reacted as anyone would, under the circumstances- perhaps even with more kindness than most. But there was simply too much for Harry to absorb, and quite frankly, he was angry. "He spent all that time forced to stay cooped up at Grimmauld Place, and then no one would help him get out of Azkaban again."
"We'd both wondered how he'd escaped," Professor Dumbledore murmured, his expression grave. "He never told us he was an Animagus."
"But I did," Harry said bitterly. To Professor McGonagall, he added, "I suppose you'll be on your way to the Ministry now to tell them."
"No." Professor McGonagall shook her head slowly. "No. The Ministry..."
"...will be of no use," Professor Dumbledore finished for her. "They will not believe you- or a worse possibility, they will, and one can only imagine how they will handle the situation."
Thinking back to his struggles with the Ministry after Voldemort's return, Harry couldn't help but reluctantly agree, even though he wanted to stay furious.
"Before he escaped, Sirius spent a great deal of his time trying to understand what had happened to him," Professor McGonagall said. "Much like yourself, he spent his early days in a haze, unable to parse exactly who or where he was- a task not helped by the presence of the Dementors, no doubt."
A spark of rage shot through Harry's stomach as he imagined Sirius being forced back into the worst time of his life.
"He was able to recollect bits and fragments over time, much as you have," Professor McGonagall went on. "Shortly before he escaped, he remembered something new."
"What was it?" Harry asked when she paused again.
"He remembered falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries."
Author's Note: More has been revealed, and even more than that (including how and why this world came to be) will be explained the next chapter- at which point Harry has quite a few decisions to make! Hope you enjoy!