Author's Note: Thank you for the kind notes! Looking forward to continuing to share this story with you.
THE STARS ARE DIFFERENT HERE
Chapter Two: The Journey to Hogwarts
What the hell had he done?
Harry paced the length of his bedroom again and again, still completely bewildered he'd shared the truth with Aunt Petunia of all people. Downstairs, the Dursleys were eating dinner; he'd had feigned a stomachache in order to have some time alone to process everything that had just occurred.
Flopping on his bed, Harry ran a hand through his hair, which remained as untidy as ever no matter what reality he was in.
What was going on?
That fog- what the hell had that been? It seemed to have fully lifted at last, and he could see now that he'd been wandering in far more of a haze than he'd been able to comprehend these past few weeks.
Well, he was himself now, at least. Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened leading up to whatever this was. Sirius had been taken by Voldemort, except he hadn't really been, but then he turned up anyway. Harry thought back to the Department of Ministries, of making his way with the others through strange rooms, of the Hall of Prophecy, of being ambushed by Death Eaters. His friends- Harry's chest constricted. Were his friends all right? Did they even still exist?
He thought of Ron fighting the tentacles of the brain that had latched onto him, of Hermione crumpling to the floor after being hit with a streak of what seemed to be purple flame. He thought of Neville's broken nose, of Luna bending over Ginny and her broken ankle.
He thought of the Order turning up, of the small glass ball smashing against the stone steps, and of the bright figure emerging and speaking incomprehensibly before vanishing.
And Sirius- Harry thought of Sirius, and whatever it was that happened to him before he'd found himself here. As clear as his head was now, he still couldn't recall the moments just before his world changed.
It was something incredibly important. Harry pressed the palms of his hands against his closed eyes, willing himself to remember. It was something bad, something terrible, even.
Why couldn't he remember?
Footsteps were approaching. Harry pulled his fists away from his eyes and opened them, blinking rapidly at the sudden burst of light. There were two short knocks on his door.
"Come in." Harry's voice was raspier than he expected, and he swallowed as Aunt Petunia entered with a small plate of food and a glass of water. "Oh. Thanks."
Aunt Petunia didn't reply, instead crossing the room and placing the plate and glass on Harry's bedside table. She stood there for a long moment, motionless, seeming to consider her next words carefully.
"D'you want to sit?" Harry asked when those words didn't come. He sat up straighter and motioned at the wobbly chair under the desk in the corner of the bedroom.
"That won't be necessary." Aunt Petunia inhaled, then exhaled sharply. "I've made contact with... your people."
"You spoke with Dumbledore?"
"I sent a message."
"How?" Harry pictured Aunt Petunia standing in front of a post office three towns over, a large hat and sunglasses concealing her face as she held a letter to Hogwarts in one hand.
"Don't ask questions," she snapped, sounding so much like the Aunt Petunia he remembered that for a moment Harry wondered if he'd been sent back to his original place and time. "I told them everything you told me. Someone will be here tonight. I wanted you to be prepared."
"Who?" Harry asked, unable to help himself. "Dumbledore?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. But before that happens, there are things I should tell you. Things your uncle and I have neglected to mention before now."
"I know I'm a wizard. Sorry," Harry said, when Aunt Petunia winced. "And I know how my parents were killed by Vold-" He stopped himself as she winced again. "I know that's how they died. Is that the same here?"
Aunt Petunia nodded sharply, not meeting his eyes. "They were involved in some sort of... some sort of war, then they went into hiding before... well, before they were found. I suppose you know you're something of a celebrity in your world." She said the word celebrity with disdain, as though she disapproved of the concept of such a thing existing just as much as Harry being one.
"And Hagrid brought me to Dumbledore, who brought me here," Harry said, half to himself, imagining all the things he and the headmaster would have to say to one another. He hadn't been pleased with the man for much of the previous year, but Dumbledore wouldn't ignore him now. He couldn't.
"I suppose he did. I never met him. He did sign the letter he left with you." Aunt Petunia shook her head. "That lot didn't even have the decency to knock on the front door, they just left you there, more than a year old in November. It's a wonder you didn't wander off or freeze to death. And would you eat?" she snapped, jerking her head at the plate of food. "It's getting cold."
Harry wasn't very hungry, but he obliged, taking a bite of overcooked chicken before asking, "I suppose you didn't get along with my mum in this world either."
Aunt Petunia stiffened. "Stop saying that."
"Saying what?"
"That." She shuddered slightly. "In this world."
"Oh." Harry shifted. "Sorry. What's the matter with it?"
Aunt Petunia's face tightened. "It's difficult enough to have to grapple with someone claiming to be from... from the future, but from another world..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "We won't speak of it. You'll handle it with your kind. They'll be here soon enough."
They stayed that way in silence for a moment, Harry taking bites of cold chicken because it was easier to do that than to speak. Aunt Petunia finally lowered herself onto the desk chair, a look of defeat on her face. She seemed to be struggling with her own proclamation they wouldn't speak of Harry's past- future- whatever it was. Harry, meanwhile, felt like an idiot, not knowing what to do other than eat and take sips of his water.
"You said we made you sleep in a cupboard?" she finally asked.
"Erm, yeah. The one under the stairs."
"Was there not enough room for you?"
"Well," Harry said carefully, not sure how brutally honest to be, and settling on simply going for it. "There was enough room. It was basically the same house, but Dudley needed this room for his broken toys, and the ones he didn't like as much that wouldn't fit in his first bedroom."
Aunt Petunia twitched slightly. "So help me God, if you're lying to me..."
Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, everything's else the truth, but only now I've decided to start lying." He paused when Aunt Petunia just stared at him. "I didn't have to sleep there forever. You made Dudley give up his second bedroom when my first Hogwarts letter arrived."
"Stop saying I did anything," Aunt Petunia murmured. She still seemed unable to meet his eyes. "I did nothing of the sort."
"I know you didn't," Harry reassured her. "It's like I said earlier... you and Uncle Vernon, you're different here."
Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, then closed it. When she finally spoke, it was so softly Harry had to strain to hear her. "Did we hurt you?"
"What do you mean?" Harry furrowed his brow. "Uncle Vernon tried to smack me upside the head a couple of times, but I was usually faster. And you swung a frying pan at my head that one time, but I ducked that too. You didn't beat me or anything, if that's what you're asking. I think it was easier to just stick me in the cupboard when I did something you didn't like, so you wouldn't have to look at me." He paused, wondering if he should mention the time they'd put bars on his window and fed him cold soup through a cat flap, but the expression on Aunt Petunia's face kept him from going any further.
It seemed as though there were a great many things she wanted to say, but nothing came out. After a moment had passed, she folded her hands and cleared her throat. "Well. There won't be any of that here. Never."
Harry, unsure of how he was supposed to respond, or if he was supposed to respond at all, simply nodded.
"I'm going to speak with your uncle and tell him I've received word that someone from... someone from your school is on their way." Her expression hardened. "I'd recommend staying out of the way until he's had a chance to accept it."
"Have you told him about...?" Harry trailed off. "Does he know what I told you?"
Aunt Petunia shook her head. "And I'll ask you to keep it that way. I won't have Vernon or, God forbid, Dudley dragged into... whatever this is." She stood up and was about to leave the room when she stopped. "You said something in the car, about saving your godfather from Vold... from that man."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. That's what I was trying to do, at least, when I wound up here."
"But... he's gone, isn't he? He died, or vanished, or whatever it was he did," Aunt Petunia said, nodding at while not quite looking at Harry's scar.
Harry tried to think of a gentle way to explain it, and failing, simply explained, "He came back."
His aunt's eyes had gone very wide, her face paling. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"I saw him. At the end of last year. The end of last year in my world, at least," he added quickly. "He's... as far as I know, he's not back here. And with a head start, I think it can be stopped from happening again."
Aunt Petunia studied him for a long while, eyes still wide, then nodded once more. "To head starts, then."
Uncle Vernon wasn't consistently shouting, but every so often a muffled roar of protest could be heard from within the confines of number four, Privet Drive.
"We had it sorted!" Harry listened to his uncle's blustering from his cracked-open bedroom door. "You get one letter from these- these people, and you're ready to throw away all our hard work? The boy is going to Stonewall!"
Harry couldn't make out Aunt Petunia's reply, but it was likely an admonishment to lower his voice, as his uncle's next words were far more difficult to hear.
Dudley's bedroom door was cracked open as well, and Harry met his cousin's gaze as Uncle Vernon continued to rant away.
"What did you do?" Dudley's brow was furrowed in confusion.
"Dunno," Harry lied.
"You have to have done something." Dudley turned to look at his parents' closed bedroom door. "You're not going to Stonewall anymore?"
Harry shrugged, straining but failing to make out the specifics of his uncle's complaints, which were growing particularly heated.
"There's no way they're sending you to Smeltings. You'd never get in."
"Good. I could live without the orange knickerbockers."
Dudley started to retort back, but both boys fell silent as they simultaneously became aware that the master bedroom had suddenly gone quiet. They both shut their doors quickly, and only a moment later the master bedroom's door creaked open, then shut again.
The doorbell rang at half past eight. Harry burst from his bedroom and took the stairs two at a time, only to run smack into Uncle Vernon upon reaching the bottom.
"You've told him, then?" Uncle Vernon asked, his expression one of furious disbelief.
"I told him someone from his new school would be visiting." Aunt Petunia didn't meet her husband's gaze, instead turning away and striding to the front door.
Harry took in a deep breath as she opened it, one that seemed to instantly evaporate when he found Minerva McGonagall standing there.
"Mr. Potter, I presume."
Harry gaped at her. "You're not Professor Dumbledore."
Professor McGonagall gazed at him for a very long moment, and she seemed to be considering several different replies before going with, "I'm afraid I'm not."
Harry's mind was racing. Professor McGonagall had always been trustworthy, he didn't have any doubts there. But why had Professor Dumbledore sent her instead of coming on his own? This wasn't the sort of thing Harry could imagine the headmaster delegating to someone else, not even McGonagall. He thought back to the previous summer, when the dementors attacked Privet Drive, and the messages that seemed to come from everyone except Dumbledore.
It figures, he thought to himself. Dumbledore's ignoring you in this world too.
"We'll discuss it further shortly," Professor McGonagall said, studying his expression carefully. "But in the meantime, hopefully I shall do."
"Please, won't you come inside?" Aunt Petunia's eyes flitted up and down Privet Drive, and Harry knew she wasn't trying to be polite, but instead limit just how many people spotted the middle-aged woman in wool twill robes and a pointed hat on her doorstep.
Uncle Vernon's mouth moved much like that of a fish as Professor McGonagall calmly strode into number four, Privet Drive. "You have a lovely home, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley."
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Dudley peeking around the landing at the top of the stairs. Aunt Petunia spotted him as well, and her expression darkened as she snapped, "Dudley, go to your room."
Dudley, who didn't seem accustomed to being told what to do in any of the worlds Harry had known him, stared at his mother incredulously. "Why? I haven't done anything."
"Go," Uncle Vernon said, seemingly only capable of single word sentences for the time being. "Now."
Dudley ignored him. "Who is that woman? Why is she dressed like that?"
"Dudley." Uncle Vernon took a step toward staircase. "Now."
Dudley's screwed up and, with a loud wail of protest, he stomped to his bedroom, slamming the door so hard it was a wonder it wasn't ripped off his hinges.
"Now," Professor McGonagall said pleasantly, as though nothing had occurred. "Mrs. Dursley, you indicated you do not wish for either you and your husband to be part of this... discussion."
Aunt Petunia nodded as Uncle Vernon spluttered, "You won't tell him anything! We agreed he'd go to Stonewall High! That he'd be raised in a proper environment away from- from your kind!"
McGonagall hardly flinched. She turned to Harry, raised. "Mr. Potter, do you wish to go to Stonewall High?"
"Not really," Harry said, ignoring his uncle's protests, which were really more strangled noises than anything coherent.
"Indeed." Professor McGonagall turned back to the Dursleys. "This is a discussion that would best be had at Hogwarts. Mr. Potter, if your aunt and uncle are amenable, would you accompany me there?"
Harry let out a sigh of relief and nodded. Dumbledore. She was taking him to Dumbledore.
"How do you even know what- what- what that place is?" Uncle Vernon turned from Harry to Aunt Petunia, an even more accusing tone to his voice. "What have you been telling him?"
"It's too late, Vernon," Aunt Petunia said, unable to make eye contact with him or anyone else. "We did our best but... but we didn't succeed. It's best he go off with his own kind."
"That's nonsense!" Uncle Vernon's mustache quivered with indignation. "We're not giving up just because some lunatic in fancy dress turns up after ten years and decides to upend our lives again!"
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said quietly, as Uncle Vernon continued to rant away. "Are you familiar with Side-Along Apparition?"
"Erm." Harry kept his voice low. "I know about Apparition. I suppose Side-Along Apparition is when-"
"A qualified witch or wizard brings another along with them, yes." Professor McGonagall glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "If you'll join me in the kitchen, then, Mr. Potter? I'd rather not distress your uncle any more than he's already distressed himself."
Uncle Vernon, his back to the two of them, had worked himself into a proper state, ranting about hooligans and deviants and other such dangerous elements with whom Harry would be involving himself. Aunt Petunia made a subtle gesture with her hand, motioning for Harry and McGonagall to go.
As much as Harry deeply disliked his first experience with Apparition, this was quickly pushed aside the moment he saw the Hogwarts gates in the distance.
"So, er... how much do you know?" Harry asked as they approached. "My aunt said she told you everything I told her."
Professor McGonagall shook her head as she raised her wand, the gates swinging open. "Not here. The forest has ears."
Harry glanced in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, which didn't seem to be anywhere near enough for them to be audible from. He obeyed, however, falling into silence as they made their way down the path and toward the castle ahead.
Hogwarts. Harry's shoulders slumped with relief as they approached the castle. For the first time since this had all begun he felt he might be close to figuring out this mess.
Even so, Harry stiffened slightly as he noticed the castle looked mostly right, but other aspects didn't quite match his memory. There were a few small turrets in incorrect places, and windows in locations that didn't seem entirely correct. Once inside, even the familiar presence of the Great Hall didn't feel like itself, but this was more due to its emptiness than anything. Harry had never seen Hogwarts before the start of term, and it was unsettling to find the castle as still and quiet as it ordinarily was in the dead of night, when it wasn't even nine yet.
"I hope you'll forgive me for not coming the moment your aunt reached out. She asked that we give her time to prepare your uncle for my arrival." McGonagall considered this, then added, "He seemed quite perturbed, so I can only imagine his reaction had he been taken by complete surprise."
"Yeah, he... he's not the biggest fan of magic," Harry explained. "Neither of them are, really."
Harry and Professor McGonagall made their way up the great marble staircase and down a corridor he knew, followed by two he didn't. Much of the journey was like this, and Harry's stomach sank as the castle he knew like the back of his hand transformed into something equal parts familiar and unfamiliar.
Perhaps it might have been easier if he'd been sent to the moon, or to a world populated entirely by flobberworms. At least then he'd be able to embrace the absurdity, as opposed to these half-correct surroundings that only served to confuse him more.
A short blast of noise caught Harry off-guard. A few more followed, and then what sounded like bugle music, played poorly and loudly, erupted from a nearby corridor.
Professor McGonagall let out an exasperated sigh. "Peeves!"
The poltergeist sauntered around the corner, a small brass instrument pressed to his lips. He brightened the sight of an unwitting audience, and with a bounce to his step he began to rapidly spin around the two of them, playing what sounded like a frenzied, ear-splitting polka.
"That's enough, Peeves!" Professor McGonagall shouted over the din, pressing her hands to her ears. "Where did you even find that contraption?"
Peeves didn't answer, instead finishing his magnum opus with a particular flat note, followed by a raspberry and a sonnet consisting seemingly entirely of rude words.
"Right, then." Professor McGonagall began to walk again, and Harry quickly followed suit.
"Term's started early this year!" Peeves called after them, taking notice of Harry. Mercifully, he didn't follow them, instead taking notice of a portrait of a witch in a particularly frilly dress who appeared to be disgusted by the commotion before her. With a gleeful cackle, Peeves set about chasing her from frame to frame with a renewed musical zeal.
"Peeves," McGonagall said as they took the opportunity to make a hasty exit, "Will likely be the death of us all."
Harry glanced over his shoulder, thinking to himself that if there were worlds other than the two he'd experienced thus far, he strongly suspected Peeves would exist as the same harbinger of chaos throughout all of them.
They'd reached the gargoyle guarding Professor Dumbledore's office. Harry could feel his pulse quicken; he watched as Professor McGonagall murmured, "Butterscotch," the stone staircase was revealing itself. Harry darted up the spiral steps, ignoring the startled, "For heaven's sake!" behind him.
He reached the top of the tower and hardly seemed to register the knocker on one of the oaken double doors; he grasped a handle and thrust the door open.
The office was empty.
"Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall had caught up with him, breathing heavily. "I am as impatient to get to the bottom of this as you are, but I am not as young as you seem to think I am."
Harry hardly heard her. He was too busy looking around, a rising sense of indignation making its way through his body. "It wasn't enough for him to ignore me for a year, he has to pretend I don't exist in this world either?"
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall repeated, then paused. "Are you speaking of Professor Dumbledore?"
"Who else?" His words came out more harshly than he'd intended.
"I see," she said quietly. "Mr. Potter... Harry. There's something you should know. Would you sit down?"
Harry stared at her, then at the office around them. It was, at first glance, identical to the one Harry was familiar with. The same silver instruments sat on spindle-legged tables, and portraits of snoozing former headmasters and headmistresses lined the circular walls. Behind the massive, claw-footed desk sat a familiar shabby wizard hat.
Even discounting Dumbledore's absence, something felt off. The silver instruments were arranged far more neatly than Harry was accustomed to seeing, and Fawkes perch was empty. He turned sharply, spotting a tartan sofa he'd once seen stuffed into a corner of Professor McGonagall's small office. And above it-
"Harry. You really should sit down."
He ignored her, stepping toward the portrait, the resident of which was sleeping as calmly as those around him. He closed his eyes and opened them again, as though doing so would erase Albus Dumbledore from his sight and perhaps even return him to the Department of Mysteries, where the world was in chaos, but at least it was his world and his chaos.
When he spoke, he felt strangely disconnected from his own body. "He's dead, then?"
"I'm terribly sorry." Professor McGonagall hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry stiffened, but he didn't shake it off. "Professor Dumbledore passed away three years ago."
"How?"
"A particularly nasty case of dragon pox, I'm afraid."
The words were meaningless at first; it was all Harry could do to grasp that Albus Dumbledore was dead to begin with. And then-
He jerked around, reaching for the nearest graspable object. His hand closed around a large, leatherbound book, and before he knew what he had happened, he'd hurled it across the room. Several portraits jolted awake, exclaiming angrily ("My word!" "My goodness!"), but Harry ignored them and began to pace back and forth. "Dragon pox? Are you joking?"
"I'm afraid not." Professor McGonagall's lips were set in a grim line. "When his illness took a turn for the worse, he requested his death notice state that he perished in a tragic bagpiping accident. I'm afraid we did not fulfill that request."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "But- but how? He was the greatest wizard of all time! How could he die of something as simple as dragon pox?"
"It's a remarkably debilitating disease," McGonagall said quietly. "But even the greatest witches and wizards pass on eventually, and it's very rarely in a blaze of glory."
"But..." Harry trailed off, then strode over to the nearest chair, one opposite Dumbledore's- opposite McGonagall's desk, and sank heavily into it. his shoulders were heaving; he wasn't crying, yet his entire body was shaking with the magnitude of the past few weeks, which had managed to culminate in this. Finally, he raised his head and said, "You've got to be bloody kidding me."
The few portraits that had stirred whispered loudly amongst themselves. Harry ignored them.
"First I get sent back in time, into my body as a sodding ten-year-old. Then things have to be different from how I remember- Aunt Petunia's not exactly nice, but she helped me, and- and the road's the wrong shape! And the stars are different! I've barely wrapped my head around all that, and now you're telling me the one person who can help me died three years ago?"
Harry thought back to the Department of Mysteries, of the way everything had changed when Dumbledore came charging in. Harry had been filled with such relief it almost hurt to remember it now.
How was he supposed to do this on his own? And what had happened at the Department of Mysteries after Dumbledore arrived?
Professor McGonagall hadn't responded. She ignored the mutterings of the portraits, instead staring directly at Harry.
"Do you even believe me?" Harry asked, slumping in defeat. "Any of it?"
"Yes, Harry," she said quietly. "I do believe you."
Well, there was that, at least. Harry looked up at Professor McGonagall, belatedly feeling a bit guilty for having implied she wasn't capable of helping him. "Why? It's an insane story. I don't think I'd believe me, at least not until I had some proof."
"Indeed." Professor McGonagall paused, then said, "What you don't know is that you are not the first person to which this has happened."
Harry stared at her, millions of questions rising to his lips but dying before he could speak them. He stood without being aware he was rising up.
Professor McGonagall seemed to be at a loss for words as well, and after a long moment she sighed deeply and turned to the portrait of Professor Dumbledore. "You are not asleep."
The lips of the painting twitched the slightest bit and, eyes still closed, Dumbledore said, "Perhaps not. But one can learn a great deal by staying pretending to be unaware and listening in."
"Well done. Now join us, Albus."
Harry stepped forward as the portrait stirred at last, and found himself finally gazing directly into the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.