Chapter 5
The Hospital Wing: Where Reality Takes a Break

It stopped. The loudness, the searing light, the overwhelming smells, the taste of sharp Scottish air—it all just stopped. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was full, like the calm after a storm. The noises were still there, but now they were pleasant, like a beautiful birdsong that seemed almost too perfect, too orchestrated. The sun was shining from the window, but no longer burning his eyes like a cruel inferno. Instead, it was softened, as if the universe had finally decided to throw him a bone, bathing the room in gentle rays of gold.

The scent of the halls, once damp and musty, mingling with whatever magic or herbs they used to keep the place clean, no longer overwhelmed his senses. Now, it just smelled good, too good—like a memory of something comforting, yet foreign. How long has it been? he wondered, How long has it been since I've just felt this good, this peaceful? Fleamont thought to himself, a thread of suspicion winding its way through the calm. It's nice. Too nice.

It was nice, simply lying there, letting the birds chirp and the sun shine. Even the sterile smell of the room, which should have been unsettling, was oddly soothing. Where am I? The thought drifted lazily through his mind, as if it wasn't in a hurry to find an answer. He let his eyes wander, taking in the white robes, the white sheets, the eggshell white walls. The familiarity of it all tugged at his memory, pulling him out of the momentary peace.

This place… I know this place. It didn't take long for recognition to set in, the realization sliding into his mind like an unwelcome guest. The Hospital Wing. He'd seen it before—no, he hadn't seen it, Harry had. He'd watched it, through the screen, through Harry's eyes, over and over again. How often had Harry and his friends ended up here? How often had they been broken and mended within these walls? The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth, a reminder that this wasn't his life, wasn't his body, wasn't his reality. But here he was, lying in the place where reality and fiction collided, and it felt… unsettling.

A voice snapped Fleamont's mind from wandering. "You're finally awake. You gave us quite the scare, young man. What could have possibly possessed you to not head straight to the hospital wing…" The words flowed over him, soothing but firm, like a lecture wrapped in a lullaby. It took a moment for Fleamont to piece together who was speaking, his thoughts still foggy from waking. "Madam Pomfrey," he realized, the name bubbling up from the recesses of his muddled memory. She stood tall, taller than he expected, with a presence that commanded the room. Her grey hair was tied back in a neat bun, her face lined but not with age—more like wisdom earned from years of patching up countless students. The way she moved, with brisk efficiency, reminded him of a general inspecting her troops, though her eyes held a softness that belied her no-nonsense tone.

Fleamont felt a strange sense of déjà vu, like he had known her in some other life, or maybe it was just the remnants of his mind trying to fill in the blanks with something familiar. He couldn't quite remember all the details, but there was a comfort in her presence, a steadying force against the chaos that had consumed him earlier. As she continued her tirade, he found himself oddly calmed by the rhythm of her words, each one a tether pulling him back from the brink of his spiraling thoughts.

"Honestly, what were you thinking, running around in that state? You could have hurt yourself—or someone else!" Madam Pomfrey scolded, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing as she looked him over.

Fleamont blinked, trying to focus, his thoughts still a jumble but quieter now, like a storm that had passed, leaving only the gentle patter of rain. "I… I didn't know where to go," he admitted, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, like it belonged to someone else. "Everything was just… too much."

Madam Pomfrey's expression softened a fraction, though her tone remained stern. "Well, you're here now, and that's what matters. But next time, come straight here. That's what the hospital wing is for, after all—to keep foolish students like you from doing more harm to themselves."

He nodded, feeling like a chastised child, though a small part of him couldn't help but find comfort in her scolding. It was normal, almost mundane, a stark contrast to the insanity that had been his life recently. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "I'll try to remember that."

She huffed, a sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "See that you do. Now, rest. You need it after whatever possessed you to cause such a scene."

With that, Madam Pomfrey turned to walk away, her footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the hospital wing. The air felt lighter, almost soothing, but before she could get too far, Fleamont's curiosity got the better of him. "Madam Pomfrey," he called out, his voice a bit steadier than before.

She paused, turning back to him with that same no-nonsense expression. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Before you go, could I have a mirror?"

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity flickering across her face. After a brief pause, she reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a small, polished silver handheld mirror. "I thought you might conjure one?" Fleamont mused, half-joking, half-serious.

She let out a soft, exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes just slightly. "Conjuring is all well and good, but any magic besides healing spells can interfere with the recovery process. Whenever possible, it's best to stick to the basics." She handed him the mirror with a gentle but firm look, reinforcing her earlier point. "And remember, Mr. Potter, there's no shame in asking for help. Don't hesitate if you need anything."

Fleamont nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, watching as she turned away, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the mirror.

Fleamont just stared in the mirror, eyes slowly focusing on his reflection. He stared at the face of a stranger—unknown to him, and yet, oddly comforting. It was like staring at a faded memory, a feeling of familiarity just out of reach, as if this face belonged to someone he had known a lifetime ago. He blinked once, twice, watching his new features mirror his movements, each blink grounding him a little more in the reality of it. It was surreal, staring at a new face; he fought hard in his mind to solidify that this was real, that this was reality. The red hair caught his attention immediately—Lily Potter had red hair, sure, but this shade of red was almost mythical. His hair was a fiery red and danced around his head like a lion's mane—long, curly, and unkempt. With hair like this, it reminded him of flames, wild and untamed, a reflection of the raw unpredictability of his current life. With hair like this, he was unmistakable, a beacon of his new identity.

He leaned in closer to inspect his face, narrowing his eyes as if that might help him understand the stranger in the mirror. He was pale, but not so pale that he was reminded of a vampire—no, it was a healthy paleness, with a hint of warmth, evidence of some serious ginger genes. His eyes were instinctively drawn upwards; a large V-shaped scar adorned his left forehead. It was a deep, dark cut, trailing from the front of his hairline down, barely reaching his left eyebrow before hooking back up again, like a reminder of some great clash that had left its mark on him. He hovered his fingers over the scar, touching it gently, feeling the slight ridge of the healed skin beneath his fingertips. He knew the significance of this mark—or at least he thought he did—if everything had happened the way he remembered, despite these obvious "hiccups." It was ironic, he thought, that his scar was in the opposite place of his brother's, like they were mirror images of each other, connected yet distinct. But that was a problem and a thought for later.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze drifting to the rest of his features. His face was broader than it used to be, a bit softer, with rounded cheeks that made him look more than a little chubby. "Damn, I hope I at least took care of my body," he muttered, the thought coming unbidden, accompanied by a wry smile. He definitely wasn't one to judge, though; he hadn't exactly had the best fitness routine when he was... well, when he was himself. It was at least similar to how he had been before, but somehow more grounded, more substantial. His eyes, though—those were something else entirely. Deep hazel, with flecks of gold that caught the light just right, creating an effect that made them almost seem to glow. There was depth there, a richness that felt completely unfamiliar, as if they held secrets he had yet to uncover, secrets that perhaps weren't his alone. "Eyes may truly be the window to the soul, but whose, I wonder?" he ruminated aloud, his voice a hushed whisper that was swallowed by the silence of the room.

He tilted his head, trying to see himself from different angles, to map out this new terrain that was now his. His skin was smooth, the faintest freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, giving his face a touch of warmth that softened the starkness of his scar and the intensity of his eyes. There was a contrast here—a duality that fascinated him. The freckles, the rounded cheeks—they hinted at innocence, at youth. But then there were the eyes, the scar, the hair like a blazing inferno, all of it speaking of something raw, untamed, maybe even dangerous. He took in the rest of his body as much as he could, turning his shoulders and craning his neck to get a better look. He was broader here too—his chest and shoulders had more mass, and his arms looked strong, yet they retained a softness, a humanity that kept him from feeling like some carved-out hero. His stomach certainly wasn't flat; there was more than a slight roundness there, and he couldn't help but pinch it slightly, feeling the flesh beneath his fingers. It was strange, this mix of strength and vulnerability, the embodiment of a life he was yet to fully understand.

"This is new," he thought to himself, the words tinged with a sense of both curiosity and resignation. He certainly wasn't ugly—handsome, even, if he were to be honest with himself, though in a rugged, unfinished way. "Hey, I at least got an upgrade compared to my previous body," he chuckled, the sound breaking the stillness, a nervous energy to it as he tried to adjust to what he was seeing. His body felt right—it felt like home, in a way that was both comforting and deeply unsettling. Yet, staring at his reflection, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was still missing, that some part of him was yet to catch up to this new reality. He let out a slow breath, setting the mirror down and beginning to think, trying to untangle the knots of thoughts that twisted and turned in his mind.

As he sat there, the room silent save for the faint sounds of the castle beyond—muffled conversations, the creak of floorboards, the distant echo of a door closing—he found himself caught between two worlds. The one he remembered, the one that had shaped him, and this one, the one that demanded he adapt, that he become something new. It was like being reborn, but without the comfort of ignorance. He was fully aware, painfully so, of what he had lost and what lay ahead. The face in the mirror might be his, but it was also a reminder of everything that was different now—an emblem of the choices he would have to make, the identity he would have to build from scratch.

The pacing of his thoughts slowed, the frantic rush of observation giving way to a heavier sense of contemplation. What did it mean to be Fleamont Potter? What did it mean to bear this scar, to wear this face, to inhabit this body? He traced his fingers over his scar again, feeling its raised edges. It was a symbol, just as Harry's lightning bolt was a symbol. A symbol of survival, of something he had endured—but what was it exactly? And why was he here, in a world that seemed like a reflection, a dream of something half-remembered?

He rubbed his face, letting out a sigh. The overwhelming feeling that came over him was one of disconnection like the person in the mirror was an actor playing a role he wasn't quite ready to perform. Yet there was also a flicker of something else—a sense of possibility, of new beginnings. This was a second chance, in a world filled with magic, with people who seemed to care for him, people who had never existed in his previous life. There was potential here, a future that could be forged, and for the first time since waking up, he felt a sense of cautious hope.

He straightened his posture, setting his shoulders back, looking back at the mirror with a steady gaze. "Alright, Fleamont," he muttered, his voice carrying a note of determination that surprised even him. "Let's see what you've got." He still didn't know what any of this meant, what his place was, or how he fit into the grand tapestry of this magical world, but he was here. He was alive. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.
His brief attempt at solace and a chance to collect himself, however, was quickly interrupted before it even began. He heard sets of feet marching down the corridor, their rhythmic steps echoing with urgency, until the door was flung open. Three people burst into the Hospital Wing, and he barely had time to prepare himself for what was coming.

There was no mistaking the taller woman. She looked almost exactly as he had seen in the photographs and glimpses in the films, yet more real, more alive, and undeniably present. Her eyes, the same bright green as Harry's, were filled with worry, and her auburn hair was pulled back into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. She looked younger than he had imagined, her face free of lines, her expression open and gentle, as if life had yet to take its toll on her. It was surreal seeing her in this light—warm, motherly, and so different from the tragic figure he had always pictured.

The man standing beside her was obviously James Potter. His father. Tall, with unruly black hair and glasses perched on his nose, a grin playing on his lips as he looked at Fleamont. He looked like an older version of Harry, but there was an ease to his demeanor that Harry never quite had—a confidence that spoke of years of experience, of having faced life and come out the other side stronger. His appearance was different from the films—a bit older, a touch more worn. His jawline was more defined, his hair blacker and longer, almost matching his long wavy black cloak, and yet signs of aging showed. Small grey hairs tickled his light stubble, and there were faint wrinkles etched across his forehead—marks of war or simply age, Fleamont didn't know. He seemed, in a way, more real than the polished, perfect image from the screen—he was human, flawed, and undeniably present.

The third figure, on the other hand, was a mystery. She was tall, almost at Lily's height, her features seemingly a near-perfect mix between the two of them. She had her mother's vibrant green eyes and her father's unruly black hair, though it fell in waves around her shoulders rather than in untamed tufts. Her face was a blend of both parents—familiar yet distinct. She seemed, at best, a year younger than Fleamont. He could guess who she was, but with all this new nonsense being thrown at him, he could hardly fathom the idea. It felt like reality had shifted beneath his feet, leaving him with nothing but guesses and hopes.

"Hey, kiddo, you gave us quite the scare, you know that?" James said before ruffling Fleamont's hair. There was an easiness to his voice, but Fleamont could sense the worry that lingered beneath the surface, the fear of what might have been. Lily, his mother, raced over and began to check him over, her hands fluttering around him, touching his forehead, his arms, as if to confirm he was truly there. It was an unfamiliar sensation—having someone care so much. "This felt odd," Fleamont thought to himself, "but... I'm glad in a way."

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice soft but dripping with concern. Her eyes were scanning his face, looking for any sign of pain or discomfort, her worry evident in every line of her expression.

"I'm doing alright," Fleamont managed to stammer out, though the words felt clumsy in his mouth, like he was still learning how to speak in this new reality.

"What happened?" the girl asked, her voice curious but with an edge of worry. Fleamont had almost forgotten about her with these two standing in front of him—his parents. They all looked at him the same way—concerned, confused, and most importantly, wanting to know what had transpired. But it was clear his parents wanted him to ease into it, as Lily shot the girl a look and said, "Ivy, now isn't the time for that." Her tone was gentle but firm, the kind of tone only a mother could master. She then turned back to Fleamont, her hands still gently touching his arm, as if to reassure herself he was alright.

Fleamont said, "It's okay, I might as well tell you now." There was no sense in delaying it, not when they were all looking at him like that, with a mixture of hope and fear. So, Fleamont recounted the tale, doing his best to remember what had happened in the books, though he was in Harry's place this time, and using the hazy memories of when he woke up. He hoped it was enough; with the changes so obviously in front of him, he couldn't be certain it had all happened the way he remembered. Honestly, details weren't his strongest skill right now—his head felt like it was swimming, the lines between reality and fiction blurring at the edges.

Lily smiled, a small, gentle smile that reached her eyes, her hand dropping from his cheek, her gaze still searching his face as if to reassure herself he was really alright. "You've been through quite an ordeal. But you're safe now." Her voice was soothing, filled with warmth, and it was enough to make some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.

James stepped closer, his grin widening as he clapped a hand on Fleamont's shoulder. "Yeah, you're safe. And you did great, Monty. Really great. We're proud of you." There was something in his voice that made Fleamont's chest tighten—a sincerity that caught him off guard.

Fleamont's heart clenched at the words, an overwhelming mix of emotions surging through him—relief, confusion, a deep, aching longing that he couldn't quite name. He swallowed hard, trying to keep himself composed, trying to keep the emotions from spilling over. He had never imagined he would hear those words, not from someone like James Potter, not directed at him.

"Thanks, Dad," he said, the word feeling strange on his tongue, yet right at the same time. He had never called anyone that before, not in this way, and it made something in his chest tighten, a warmth spreading through him that he hadn't realized he needed.

He looked at Ivy, attempting to gauge her reaction. She was looking at him with a mixture of concern and something else—a kind of wary curiosity.

"You gave us quite a scare, you know. Mum and Dad were worried sick," she said, her voice carrying a hint of concern but with a smile tugging at her lips. It was a strange combination—both teasing and genuine, as if she was trying to lighten the mood but couldn't quite mask her worry.

"I... I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to..."

Ivy waved a hand, dismissing his apology, her smile widening as she spoke. "Oh, don't worry about it," she said. "Just don't do it again, okay? I don't think Mum could handle it."

Lily gave her a look—a universal mom look that spoke volumes without saying a word—before Ivy shrugged, her smile never faltering. "What? It's true."

James cleared his throat, drawing Fleamont's attention back to him. "We should probably let you rest," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at Fleamont. "You've been through a lot, and you need time to recover." His tone was gentle, the concern still evident, but there was also a sense of pride there—a belief in Fleamont's resilience.

Lily nodded, her eyes still on Fleamont. "We'll be right outside if you need anything," she said, her voice tender. "Just ask Madam Pomfrey, okay? She took damn good care of your father back in our day; don't be afraid to ask her for help."

"Okay... Mom," Fleamont said, his voice barely above a whisper. It felt strange to call her that, but it also felt right, like something that had been missing had finally clicked into place.

"Awww, are you being shy, Mamas boy?" Ivy remarked, her voice teasing, though there was warmth there too. Before Fleamont could respond, a sharp look from Lily sent Ivy giggling out of the room, her laughter echoing softly in the quiet hospital wing.

"Rest up, son. You did good," James said, ruffling his hair once more before turning to follow Lily and Ivy out of the room. There was a warmth in his voice that lingered, wrapping around Fleamont like a comforting blanket.

Fleamont watched as they left the room, the door closing softly behind them. He picked up the mirror once again, staring at his new face, his new life. This was him now. This was his body, his face, his life. He didn't know how to feel about it, didn't know if he could ever truly accept it, but he knew one thing for certain—this was real. This was his reality now, and he had to find a way to live in it. He was scared—how the hell was he supposed to be Fleamont now? How was he supposed to survive in a world he thought was fiction, a world a mere two years away from a very powerful, very homicidal maniac coming back and waging a war on his new world? He let out a slow breath, trying to let go of the fear, the uncertainty, the doubt that weighed heavily on his mind.

This was him now, and he wouldn't let anyone take that away from him. He wouldn't EVER go back to that place. This was his chance—his new life, his new identity, and he would face it head-on, no matter what came his way.

One final thought took hold of him before he fell back into the arms of sleep: determination.