Chapter 3: Francis Crowley was not meant to have a future, but here he is, in the future. [TW: discussion of suicide attempt]
III
Heaven or St. Mungo's
[London, July 2017]
Maybe this is heaven, he thinks, if there was such a place. No, this has to be hell. Everything feels the same but everything is different, confusing. People speak the same language but he isn't even sure he understands what they are saying. How can he be so out of place in the very place where he was born?
They take him to a dingy building where a woman sits behind a large black box and types on a typewriter with no paper. Long fingernails against keys making words he can't see. She stares at the box and rolls a little wheel with her finger, her eyes scanning, glancing up and down.
Next he is taken into a little room with a steel door and no windows, except for the one in the door. Sometimes a pair of eyes will appear on the other side of that little window, then another. Muffled voices in the hall. Yes, this could be hell. Francis squints at the walls. Cryptic markings are scratched into them. Lots of rude things about a woman named Margaret Thatcher.
Then he is removed from the little windowless room and brought to an ambulance, which takes him to a hospital, which is the most confusing part of the whole thing because he isn't sick or anything. It was also disappointing because it means he isn't dead. Dead people don't need hospitals, do they?
"You think you're dead?" The doctor asks, shining a bright light in one eye, then the other.
"I did. Now I don't. Unless this is a confusing form of torture." Francis says.
"Doesn't appear brain damaged." The doctor says to the nurse.
"But he thinks he's dead." The nurse says.
"What year is it?" The doctor asks.
"1958."
"Oh dear." The nurse says.
"Are you sure of that?"
"Am I sure of what?" Francis says.
"That it's 1958. In 1958, people hadn't landed on the moon, and we didn't have the internet or cell phones…"
"Interwhat? People on the moon? What the bloody hell are you on about? You should be the one in here, not me. Fucking out of your mind, people on the goddamn moon."
The doctor and the nurse exchange looks of concern.
"You think we should consult Rowena?" The doctor asks the nurse.
"Did he have one of those sticks they always have?" The nurse asks.
"You mean a wand?" Francis says.
"Do you have a wand?" The doctor asks.
"Yeah, back in my room at the orphanage. I wouldn't take it to the beach, I'm not a fool." Francis yawns.
"I'll go phone Rowena." The nurse hustles off.
Within the hour, Francis is moved once again, this time to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
"Someone's here to see you." A young nurse with a kind voice says, leaning casually in the doorjamb with her clipboard propped against her hip. "You feel like you could eat?"
Francis nods slowly. The sedatives are making him feel like he's suspended in a vat of gelatin. For the first few days he'd been there he was convinced he had been captured by faeries and refused to eat the food. He is starving though and he can't hold out much longer. Besides, all his talk of faeries is making everyone think he's crazy, which is the last thing he needs right now, considering he probably is, in fact, crazy.
"Good afternoon. "Another woman greets him. Her voice was not as kind, but sharp and rigid, and it makes Francis recoil slightly. For a moment he thought it was Mrs. Cole.
"Is it?" Francis grunts, propping himself up in his hospital bed.
"Afternoon? Yes, it is." The woman says. "I'm…"
"Professor McGonnagall." Francis interrupts.
"Yes." She blinks, taken aback. How did this child recognize her? From a picture? But she hadn't been a professor in many years.
"I was contacted by the Ministry this morning," she continues. "They said a young wizard turned up by the name Francis Crowley, claiming to be a third year at Hogwarts."
"You don't remember me?" Francis frowns.
"I remember someone by that name, but that was many many years ago, and he…well, he died many years before you were born. Just a few years after I began teaching. He was deeply troubled." She studies Francis' face, trying to remember.
"Yeah, I was in your first class. Transfiguration. I turned your hat into a bee hive."
"How do you know about that?" Professor McGonagall gasps.
"I'm sorry, by the way. It wasn't as funny as I thought it would be."
"No, it wasn't funny. I'm allergic to bees." Professor McGonagall eyes him warily.
"Am I dead?" Francis asks.
"No. No, you're not dead, but I'm also concerned you're not in your right mind."
"Guess it's a good thing I'm here then." Francis thumps the bed.
"They told me you tried to kill yourself."
"Yeah, well the first time didn't work, and then nobody would tell me what the hell was going on, and I couldn't eat any of the food because what if they were faeries, so…"
"And it didn't work."
"No, it never works! Guess I can't be good at everything." He rolls his eyes and flops his head back against the pillow.
The cheerful nurse appears with a tray of food and presents it to Francis with the flourish of a waiter in a gourmet restaurant. Professor McGonagall takes this as her cue to leave, and bids Francis goodbye with a curt wave.
"Heirloom cabbage stuffed with delicately seasoned grass-fed beef." She announces. "Bon appetite!"
No sooner had she turned her back than the whole tray had been consumed, plate licked clean.
"Albus, stop!" A whine echos down the corridor, followed by two boys, their trainers slapping the freshly waxed floor.
"You stop!" Albus shouts.
"Boys! No running in the hospital! People here are trying to rest! "An older version of the two boys runs after them, grabbing each by the arm.
"Ow, dad, that hurts!" Albus, the younger one, complains.
"Mr. Potter?" The cheerful nurse says, turning the corner, empty tray in hand.
"Sorry for the commotion. It's turned into take your kids to work day, I'm afraid. Babysitter bailed on us." Harry looks sternly at the two boys. "Where's your sister?"
"She's right there." The older boy, James, points to the space next to his father, where a young girl is standing quietly.
"Ah. See, this is how you're supposed to be have in public. Well done, Lily." Harry pats his daughter on the head. "I'm here to interview, um, let's see…" He squints at a hastily handwritten note. "Francis Crowley? Is that right?"
"You're quite a popular guy, Francis." The nurse says, turning to the young man in the bed. "Are you up for another visitor?"
Francis rolls his eyes and sinks further back into the pillow.
"Be gentle with him. He was very upset when he came in, but we gave him something to take the edge off." She says quietly to Harry before giving them privacy.
"Mr. Crowley? Can I call you Francis?" Harry says, oddly formal, as he approaches the bed. Something about the kid immediately makes him nervous.
"Doesn't matter." Francis is staring just over Harry's shoulder at the wall, where a small stream of oddly-colored moisture is leaking from the ceiling.
"Do you know who I am?" Harry asks.
"No, sir. I do not. Should I?" Francis says, mimicking Harry's formality. He looks him up and down. Messy hair, smudgy round glasses, a weird-looking scar scratched into his forehead. Then he sees the badge. "You're an auror. You're here to arrest me? But I didn't do anything. Killing yourself isn't a crime."
"You tried to kill yourself?" Harry frowns. He flips open a pad and jots something down.
"Yeah. And I thought maybe I did, like this is the afterlife, but then I tried again, and I'm still here so. Maybe that means that it did work the first time, since you can't kill yourself twice, right?" There is something frantic in the boy's eyes, despite his drug induced demeanor.
"You said you go to Hogwarts? That you're in your third year? James, come over here." Harry beckons to his eldest son. "This is my son, James. He's also in his third year at Hogwarts. James, do you recognize him?"
"What house are you in?" James has never seen this kid in his life.
"Slytherin." Francis says.
"I don't hang with Slytherins." James says to his dad. "What's your deal?"
"What?"
"That's enough, James. Go watch your brother, will you?" Harry dismisses his son, who creeps away and sneaks up on his brother from behind, giving his ears a good grab, yanking hard.
"Can you give me the names of your friends at Hogwarts?" Harry flips to a new page in his notebook.
"Friends?" Francis frowns.
"Classmates, then?" Harry wishes he could order up some drugs for his own children right now.
"Alex Gibbon was the only person who'd talk to me. Phinneas Carrow took some weird pleasure in making my life hell. I dunno, there were some other people. That girl Clara, that other girl Erin. How is this helpful? Why are you asking me this? I'm not crazy, you know. You think I'm crazy, that nurse thinks I'm crazy, that's why she's being so nice to me, but I'm not crazy."
"No, I don't think you're crazy, Francis. I know you just went through a lot."
"I did? What did I go through?"
"Why don't you tell me? I'm here to help, that's all. Nobody's in trouble here." Harry is trying to sound reassuring, but it's not really his strong suit. He's starting to get the sense that there's something deeply wrong, but he can't quite put his finger on it.
Francis considers it. He really does. For a whole second he thinks about telling this guy, Harry, that he is from the past, and now he's stuck in the future with no way back. But that would be the very definition of counter-productive, and most likely earn him a permanent spot in this dreadful place.
"Why can't anybody tell me what's going on?" Francis mutters, casting a glance at the two brothers wrestling with each other in the corner.
"You don't remember anything?" Harry asks.
Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe that's why he's acting so weird, Harry thinks. All that talk about the afterlife, faeries.
"No. I don't." Francis looks down at his hands, palms up on the blanket.