Lightning Amongst the Stars
Chapter Two – The Mouse Trap
Beta-writer: Hollenheist
Harry's world exploded into chaos. One moment, blissful unawareness. The next, the air itself seemed to tear, a scream of displaced energy ripping through the room.
His ears pounded with a roar like a dragon awakening after centuries of slumber. Colours, once distinct, bled into each other – the faded green of dying plants melting with the dusty grey of the cave floor. Blurred faces, twisted in concentration, morphed into grotesque caricatures. A sudden moment of clarity – Padma. He tried to speak, to ask what was going on – why was he not on the battlefield, what had happened? He managed to articulate himself with a not-so-coherent "What?" before the world tipped again, the room spinning sickeningly on its axis.
He was falling or flying; the sensation itself was impossible to define. It wasn't the thrilling ascent of soaring on a Quidditch pitch, but a violent tumble, a sickening lurch that seemed intent on turning his insides out. Harry tried to scream, but a torrent of air forced its way into his lungs, choking him.
Just when the nausea threatened to overwhelm him, a blinding flash of light ripped through his tightly clenched eyelids. He slammed into something solid with bone-jarring force.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
A persistent beeping noise pierced the heavy fog of unconsciousness for Harry. His eyelids struggled to flutter awake under the heavy crustiness of sleep. The incessant beep assaulted his ears. His eyes refused to open. The noise burrowed deeper into his skull, as if a tiny man with a whistle was trying to make his brain leak from his ears. It was familiar, but he couldn't place it, like one of those spells that backfired with a shrill whistle instead of the intended effect. Harry groaned, trying to slip back into the oblivion that at least offered relief from the pounding in his head.
"You awake, then, lad?"
The voice startled him. It was rough, from an unfamiliar person. He forced his heavy eyelids open. Clinical white brightness immediately assaulted his retinas. Harsh light forced him to squint against the onslaught. Slowly, blurry shapes began to coalesce into something resembling a room – sterile walls, a white tile floor, and a metal contraption hanging above him, dripping a clear liquid into a tube that snaked down alarmingly towards his arm.
He realised this was not the Hogwarts hospital wing with a startle. He knew those cracked green walls, that faint, ever-present smell of potions, and Madam Pomfrey's perpetually stern expression far too well to mistake it for anything else. Nor was it the usual haphazard medi-bay put together by the ragtag group he ran with of the survivors of the Wizarding World.
A hand roughly placed a pair of glasses – his own – onto Harry's face and he jumped as they did so. A man loomed into view, his broad form encased in a starched white coat. He was older, with dark hair shot through with silver and deep lines etched across his face.
Cold dread coursed through Harry's veins. Everything about this situation was wrong. He should be with the others, the remnants of the Order: Ron, Hermione, Padma…
The doctor must have realised something was wrong, for he laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. The gesture did not feel comforting.
"Breathe, son, breathe," said the doctor. Harry listened, trying to keep his heart from hammering and the panic at bay.
"Where," Harry coughed out from his strangled throat. The effort sent a spike of pain through his temples. "Where am I?"
The doctor looked at him with wary eyes.
"Whipps Cross, son," he replied.
At Harry's blank stare, he elaborated. "The hospital?" But something flickered in the man's eyes for a moment, a spark of suspicion before it was carefully masked.
Whipps Cross. The name meant nothing to Harry. It sounded vaguely familiar, but like a melody heard half-remembered from a dream. It certainly didn't sound like anywhere connected to the Wizarding world. Then he recalled: London.
"How did I get here?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Bit of a tumble you took there, by the looks of you," said the man, gesturing to Harry's head. "Bus driver found you unconscious in front of the chippy's, off the High Street. Lucky for you, he went for a smoke break, else you might've lain there half the night and caught your death. What were you playing at anyway?"
Bus driver. Chippy's. He remembered none of this.
"How did I get here? Ambulance?" he asked tentatively.
The man – a doctor, Harry presumed – let out a gruff laugh. "Of course! What, you think they carry folks here on stretchers like in the olden days?"
Harry's head was swimming, a nauseating combination of pain and utter bewilderment. Olden days? What was happening? And for that matter, why was everyone dressed like old people? He had seen the programmes Uncle Vernon used to watch on TV, and they dressed like doctors and nurses all around him. Visitors for patients and others all dressed as if they had stepped out of those shows.
Harry's headache kicked up a notch, and he groaned, laying back into the pillow. Where was everyone else? How had he got here?
He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced the words out, "What… What date is it?"
The doctor's brow furrowed. "What kind of question is that? It's 10th August 1977, if you must know." He jotted something down on a chart at the foot of the bed.
The room lurched. The numbers echoed mockingly in Harry's head. He wasn't just lost; he was lost in time. His life, his friends, Voldemort and the war – gone. The edges of his vision vibrated as he took in huge gulps of air, breathing fast and shallow.
What in Merlin's name was going on?
"1977," he muttered, the year a foreign echo in his ears. It felt like a lifetime ago, a different world. A world without Ron's easy laughter, Hermione's quick wit, or Padma's gentle touch. A world without his friends, his love, his home.
"This can't be happening," he whispered, his voice cracking. Another wave of nausea washed over him as the reality of his situation sank in. He was stranded, adrift in a time which he had no business being in.
He sank back into the bed, collapsing into it with a groan. His fingers found the locket around his neck, a gift from Padma, her initials engraved on the back. A sob escaped his throat as he clutched the locket tight, the cold metal a poor substitute for her warmth.
"I have to go back," said Harry, his voice thick with desperation. "I have to find a way back to them."
He tried to jump to his feet, a surge of adrenaline pushing back the despair. However, the doctor clearly had other ideas and pushed Harry gently back into the bed.
"I – I have to-" Harry gargled.
"You have to rest, son," the doctor said firmly. "Nurse!"
Harry attempted to struggle, but a sharp pain in his leg brought attention to a nurse who had pricked him with a needle. Betrayal flashed across his eyes as his world blurred around the edges.
"No, no," he slurred as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Harry realised he must have passed out because the next thing he was aware of was a soft, warm hand on his forehead and a gentle voice murmuring his name. Opening his eyes, he found a different face peering down at him – this one a woman's, with kind blue eyes and a nurse's cap perched atop her dark hair.
"There you are, dear. How are you feeling?" she asked, her smile tinged with genuine concern. She wasn't the same one who had sedated him.
He was still disoriented; his head still ached, but the overwhelming, suffocating feeling had receded. Numb exhaustion filled the void left in its wake. "Confused," Harry admitted, his voice raspy.
The nurse clucked sympathetically. "That's understandable, after a knock like you had. The doctor says you'll be back to your old self in no time. Now, why don't I get you cleaned up? Then we can see about some breakfast."
Harry simply nodded. Breakfast, when it arrived, was a bland concoction of porridge and watery tea that made him long for a Mrs. Weasley breakfast back at the Burrow.
Later, after endless prodding, poking, and questions that yielded mostly mumbled 'I don't knows', the doctor – whose name was apparently Dr. Price – reappeared with a stack of papers and a grim expression.
"No signs of serious injuries," he pronounced, though Harry suspected the persistent headache would disagree. "But as you don't seem to recall who you are or where you came from, we'll need to keep you for further observation."
Harry's heart sank at his words.
"Temporary amnesia, most likely," Dr. Price offered in a tone that was meant to be reassuring but failed spectacularly. "A hard knock to the head can play tricks on the memory. But there's more," he continued.
Fear coiled in Harry's gut. In his experience, "but there's more" rarely prefaced good news.
The doctor cleared his throat. "The clothes you were found in were highly unusual." He fixed Harry with a piercing stare. "Not anything I've seen around here, nor on the telly for that matter. And the locket you wear – it has initials scratched into it, 'P.P.' - can you perhaps shed some light on that?"
Harry's mind raced. His robes were hardly inconspicuous, but outright admitting their origins would likely land him not just in observation but a padded room. The last clothes he remembered wearing were plain grey robes, tatty after too many skirmishes with the Death Eaters. But a more concerning matter filled him – his wand! Where was it? Did the doctor have it? Had he thrown it away, thinking it to be a useless stick? He needed to buy time, to figure out where he was, why, and how on earth he was going to get back – or rather, forward – to when he belonged.
"I don't know." muttered Harry.
"You mentioned getting back, you had to get back. Get back to what, son?" Dr. Price pressed.
The headache behind his eyes was dangerously close to becoming a migraine. "I don't remember saying that. I don't remember anything."
Frustration bubbled within Harry. Playing dumb was his best approach, and he prayed it would work. He thumbed the locket to avoid looking at the doctor. Dr. Price didn't seem entirely convinced, but the flicker of doubt in his eyes was enough for Harry.
"Was I found with anything else?" Harry queried.
"Nothing, lad," Dr. Price answered. "Why – were you expecting anything else?"
Harry shook his head. A strange emptiness consumed him, like he had been told he had lost his legs. He tried to hide the sheer sadness he felt at no longer having his wand.
"Well, lad, as long as your memory returns, I'm not overly concerned about the clothes," Dr. Price conceded with a curt nod. "Perhaps there's a family out there wondering where you've gotten off to, eh? Any clues at all? Mum, Dad? A name, an address, something that might jog your memory? P.P, your initials perhaps? You don't seem to be from around here."
'No, I'm not,' Harry thought morosely. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing that yes, there were people who were going to be worried about him. Yet, revealing anything about his real life was to invite disaster. He shook his head, forcing a look of despair he didn't have to fake entirely.
"I don't remember. It's all a blank," he lied, his voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor sighed, scribbling something on his papers. It was clear Harry wasn't going to get any answers out of him, at least not today.
The next couple of days in the hospital blurred together in a monotonous cycle of bland food, strange medical tests with beeping machines Harry didn't understand, and a gnawing feeling of isolation and anxiety. The nurses were kind, but they looked at him with a mixture of pity and curiosity that made him feel like a creature on display. He overheard whispered conversations about "the poor amnesia boy" to be annoyed by their presence.
Worst of all was the crushing boredom. Time, which had always felt in short supply whilst on the run, now stretched into endless, empty hours with nothing to fill them. He longed for even a detention with Snape, just for something familiar.
Visitors were scarce. A stern-faced woman from social services interviewed him, asking about his home life and any relatives. Harry's answers were a carefully crafted mix of half-truths and outright lies, weaving a tale of nothingness. He knew he would evoke sympathy and, hopefully, discourage further digging into his 'past'.
He traced the outline of Padma's initials on the locket clutched in his hand, the metal warmed by his feverish grip. But the familiar touch brought no comfort. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to conjure her image. Padma's laughter, her warmth, the way her eyes sparkled with intelligence and affection. It was all slipping away, replaced by the stark white walls of the hospital room and the antiseptic smell of disinfectant.
A sob wracked his body, shaking the thin hospital gown. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights seemed to mock him, their harsh glare a reminder of the cold reality he was trapped in.
"Padma," he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. The name echoed in the empty room, a hollow sound that reflected the emptiness in his heart. He longed to feel her hand in his, to hear her soothing voice, to lose himself in the warmth of her embrace.
Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He was alone, adrift in a past alien to him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
His time in the hospital stretched into an agonising limbo. Dr. Price's visits, once a source of frustrating non-answers, became filled with thinly veiled suspicion. And it did not end with the doctor. Whispers seemed to follow Harry down the stark hospital corridors. Nurses, with their previously sympathetic smiles, now cast sidelong glances. Orderlies who brought his tasteless meals lingered by the door as if waiting for him to morph into something monstrous.
The next morning Harry awoke not to the clatter of a breakfast tray but to a jolt of terror. His wrists were secured to the cold metal bed frame with heavy handcuffs. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his gut felt hollow. He thrashed against the restraints, the metal biting into his skin, but they held fast.
"Easy there, boy," a gruff voice cut through his frantic struggles. A burly man with a thick moustache, wearing a dark blue uniform with shiny brass buttons suddenly loomed over him. Not a doctor or a nurse, but a policeman.
"We need to ask you some questions," the officer continued, his tone clipped and devoid of any warmth. Another policeman, younger and far less imposing, stood behind him, fidgeting nervously.
Questions. It was never just questions. Harry forced himself to take a shuddering breath, fighting to focus through the haze of fear. "About what?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"About how you ended up in the High Street dressed like you stepped out of a Dickens novel," the gruff officer stated bluntly. "About where you come from and what the devil you think you're playing at."
"I told Dr. Price, I don't remember," Harry insisted. It was not even a lie, not entirely. He desperately wished he remembered how he had arrived here, and even more so how to get back.
The older policeman scoffed. "Convenient, that. Bit too convenient, if you ask me. Now," he leaned closer, his breath carrying the stale scent of cigarettes and suspicion, "let's try this again. What's your name, boy?"
Harry's mind raced. Giving any real information about himself was too dangerous. He was not just some runaway kid mixed up in a bit of trouble; he was a walking, talking impossibility wrapped up in ill-fitting hospital garb.
"I don't know," said Harry. He decided playing dumb was playing safe – the less anyone knew about him here, the better. He just had to focus on getting out of here so he could get home.
The policemen exchanged startled glances. "Don't know your own name?" the younger one echoed incredulously.
"That's right," Harry pressed on, emboldened by their bewilderment. "I don't know my name, or if I had a family, or – well, anything." He let a flicker of carefully manufactured despair seep into his voice.
The older officer's lip curled into a sneer. "What did I tell you?" he said to his partner. "Playing the sympathy card now, he is. Clever little bugger."
The policemen questioned him relentlessly, their voices a relentless drone in his aching head. They wanted details of his life before the amnesia, fragments of memory, anything that would tie him to an identifiable reality. He gave them nothing but frustratingly vague answers.
By mid-afternoon, they seemed more exasperated than suspicious. The gruff officer conferred with Dr. Price in hushed tones outside his room. Harry caught snatches of their conversation – "...psychiatric evaluation...", "...best interest..." A chilling sense of dread settled in his stomach.
The decision, it seemed, was out of his hands. As the shadows in the room lengthened, he knew he couldn't wait any longer. If they thought he was insane, his ability to escape would diminish to nothing. It was time to act.
When the nurse brought him dinner – more bland meat and overcooked vegetables – she left the tray on his bedside table then retreated. The look of pity in her eyes made him want to scream with frustration, but he resisted, as he needed that which dangled from a loop on her belt – the key to his handcuffs.
Harry waited, every rustle of fabric, every creak of the old building setting him on edge. When the corridor finally fell silent, his pulse thrumming a frantic beat in his ears, he knew he had to make his move.
"Nurse?" he called out, mirroring the whimpering tone he had heard from other occupants of the ward. "Please, I think I'm going to be sick."
His act must have been convincing, for the nurse returned, a frown creasing her brow. "Sick?" she sighed, stepping closer. "Honestly, dear, I think it's just nerves."
"Please," Harry begged, doing his best to look pathetic. With his free hand, he mimed a gagging gesture, hoping the dull ache in his head and his very real nausea would lend his performance a touch of authenticity.
Reluctantly, she reached for the keys. "Fine, fine," she muttered. "But do try to keep it down. You'll disturb the other patients."
As the key turned in the lock, releasing his right hand, a surge of adrenaline masked the throbbing pain in his abused wrists. His heart hammered, a deafening roar in his ears. This was it – now or never.
The moment the second handcuff clicked open, he lunged forward. The nurse, caught off guard, gasped as Harry shoved her backwards and bolted from the bed. He had no plan, not beyond running. The tray with its untouched dinner crashed to the floor behind him. Shouts echoed as he tore down the corridor, the linoleum cool beneath his bare feet.
A door loomed ahead. STAIRWELL, the faded sign declared. It was a gamble, but better than being cornered. He yanked it open and plunged into the dim and musty space, the protests of his pursuers fading as he clattered down the echoing steps.
He hurtled down the stairs, each jarring step sending a jolt of pain through his ankles. The world tilted around him, a nauseating blend of flickering fluorescent lights and disorienting shadows. He did not know where the stairs led nor did he care, as long as they led away from the doctors, the police and their questions, and the looming threat of a padded cell.
Harry burst through another door and found himself in a storage room filled with stacked boxes, rusted bed frames, and the chemical tang of cleaning supplies. A single, grimy window looked out onto an alleyway. It was small, barely large enough to squeeze through, and he had no idea where it would lead. It was as good a chance as any.
Frantic footsteps and muffled shouts echoed down the stairwell, growing louder by the second. He didn't have time to think or to hesitate. Driven by a desperate animal instinct for survival, he scrambled onto a stack of boxes, the musty smell of old blankets filling his nostrils.
The window was heavy, the metal frame groaning in protest as he forced it open. He wriggled his way through, scraping his knees and elbows against the cracked ledge. The drop did not look far, but his legs, one still weak from whatever injury he'd sustained before waking up here, trembled with the effort of clambering down.
He landed with a thud, wincing as pain shot up his ankle. The alley was narrow, dingy, and reeked of rotting rubbish. Still, it was freedom. A surge of hope ignited in him as he started running, the adrenaline masking the lingering nausea and the stabbing pain in his ankle.
Harry emerged into a street, even busier than the hospital corridors. People stared, their expressions a mix of pity and confusion at the sight of a barefoot boy in an ill-fitting hospital gown sprinting with the desperation of a hunted animal. None of it mattered. They were obstacles, background noise, nothing more than fleeting blurs to evade as he pushed himself on.
He dodged between towering buses and cars that roared and belched smoke. The ground beneath his feet was hard and unforgiving, sending jolts of pain up his legs at every step. He ran, driven by a need to escape that burned hotter than the blisters forming on the soles of his feet.
His lungs screamed in protest. His vision blurred. There had to be somewhere to hide, somewhere to catch his breath and think about what to do next.
Then he spotted it – a narrow gap between two grimy brick buildings leading into a sliver of shadowed space. Instinct took over. Harry stumbled, squeezing past overflowing bins and cracked paving stones. He emerged into a tiny garden area, blessedly deserted. Tall walls surrounded him, promising a temporary sanctuary from the relentless bustle of the world beyond.
Collapsing against a moss-covered wall, Harry gasped for breath. His body throbbed in protest, begging for respite. But he knew he could not stop for long. There was no telling how much distance he had put between himself and the police, but he couldn't count on luck and his own aching body for long. They would be searching for him, and when found, his escape would likely be met with far less sympathy than his supposed amnesia.
His gaze fell upon a discarded metal door propped against the wall. It was barely large enough to conceal his frame, but it would have to do. Limping over, he carefully positioned it, wedging it at an angle to create a makeshift shelter. With trembling hands, Harry pulled his flimsy hospital gown closer, a pathetic shield against the damp chill seeping into the forgotten courtyard.
Huddled in his cramped hiding spot, he allowed himself a moment of despairing vulnerability. Tears, hot and angry, welled up in his eyes. He was lost, utterly alone, and in a world so strange it might as well have been on another planet. The weight of it all threatened to crush him.
He thought of his friends. Ron, with his easy smile and unwavering loyalty. Hermione, her brilliant mind and fierce determination. Padma, with her bright spark of personality and warmth on the nights they spent cuddled together.
A flicker of anger ignited alongside the grief. He was Harry Potter for Merlin's sake! He'd faced down dragons, basilisks, and Voldemort himself. He had fought battles, survived curses, and stared death in the eye countless times.
Exhaustion washed over Harry, dulling everything else for a blessed moment. His eyelids threatened to betray him, but he fought the urge to sleep. There was no telling what dangers lurked nearby, nor any way to know if his escape was truly successful, or if this hiding place was merely the prelude to an even tighter cage. The pounding of his own heart echoed in his ears, drowning out the distant sounds of the city. Every creak of the makeshift shelter, every rustle of an unseen animal sent his pulse racing.
As darkness crept across his hideaway, fear skirted at the edges of his mind, battling with the tiredness. He was a wizard without a wand in a world he had no business being in. Yet, he was far from defeated. He would find his way back. He had to.
As dawn filtered into the garden, its weak light offered little respite from the damp chill that clung to Harry's bones. He shivered, his tattered hospital gown providing pathetic protection against the elements. Hunger gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his vulnerability in this strange, new world.
He could not stay here. He needed food, clothing, and most importantly, information. Whilst he did not have his wand, but his mind, his wits, those were still his weapons and they would have to do.
With newfound resolve, Harry emerged cautiously from his hiding spot. The alley leading back to the street was deserted. Gritting his teeth against the lingering pain in his battered body, he started walking, heading in what he hoped was the direction away from the hospital. He needed to get out of sight before any sort of organised search commenced.
Luck, however, seemed to be on his side for once. A small, grimy shop stood slightly back from the bustling pavement, its fading sign declaring it a charity shop. Rows of mismatched clothing hung haphazardly in the window. It was not Diagon Alley, but it would have to do.
Harry skirted inside, heart hammering in his chest. The shop smelled of old books and worn fabric, offering a strange sort of comfort after the sterile scent of the hospital. A tiny, hunched woman peered at him over the rims of her spectacles.
"Looking for something, dearie?" she asked, her voice surprisingly high-pitched for someone of her weathered appearance. She eyed him with a healthy amount of caution, but Harry caught sympathy lurking there too.
"Er – clothes," he managed, his face flushing. "If you have anything."
The woman eyed him, taking in the torn hospital gown and his bruised, bare feet. A flicker of pity crossed her face before she nodded and bustled towards the back of the cluttered shop.
Moments later, she emerged with an armful of clothing. The items were threadbare and faded, yet they were blissfully, wonderfully normal compared to the bizarre outfits he had seen. Trousers with flared bottoms, a t-shirt which had Led Zeppelin emblazoned on it, a brown leather jacket with flared, pointed lapels and, and black and white shoes with chrome tips.
"I've no money," Harry mumbled, shame twisting his insides.
"That's alright, dearie," said the woman with a dismissive wave of her wrinkled hand. "You look like you need the help. Here, try these on." She directed him to a curtained-off alcove at the back of the shop.
Minutes later, he stepped out, a sense of relief warring with the strangeness of his transformation. Gone was the patient in the ill-fitting gown; now, he could almost pass for just another young man, though a distinctly scruffy one.
After thanking the woman profusely and pocketing a few stale biscuits she pressed into his hand, Harry hurried out of the shop.
Now what?
Diagon Alley was out of the question. He had no wand and therefore no access. And it was unlikely that anyone was going to help him when he looked like a street urchin.
A pang of loneliness twisted within him. He truly was alone in this world and there was no-one who could help him-
The answer coursed through him like an electric shock. He froze mid step, almost bumping into a woman who muttered something about disrespectful youth. He ignored her as he regained his stride. There was one place, one person who might, just might, be able to help him.
Dumbledore.
It was a crazy, desperate gamble. This might not even be his world, merely some uncanny parallel where a different version of Hogwarts existed, if it existed at all. Yet, if there was one constant, one unwavering beacon in any reality, it had to be Dumbledore. His old headmaster had seen him through far stranger perils. Surely, he would know what to do, how to set this right?
With renewed determination, Harry began walking, no longer aimless, but driven by a new hope. Getting to Hogwarts would be its own challenge. He had no money, no way to utilise any of the modes of transportation of the Muggle world.
But a plan began to form in his mind, a patchwork of half-remembered train routes gleaned from overheard conversations and blurry newspaper maps. He would head out of the city, find a railway station, stow away somehow. It was the best chance he had.
Harry trudged on foot for hours. He avoided larger towns, instinctively gravitating towards the fringes where he was less likely to draw attention. He begged for scraps outside the backs of pubs and learned, often painfully, which faces seemed more likely to offer a piece of stale bread and which ones held the threat of violence – or worse, the police.
Despite the hardship, a sense of purpose propelled him forward. Hogwarts wasn't merely a destination. It represented a lifeline, the faintest glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. Sometimes, that hope seemed foolish, a child's dream out of reach in this world of roaring metal and indifferent strangers.
He clung to it fiercely.
Aching feet were his reward for trudging through what seemed to be endless miles, but it was forgotten the instant he spotted a signpost jutting from a tangle of overgrown bushes. The words, faded yet legible, made his heart lurch with a mixture of joy and relief:
HOGSMEADE – 10 MILES
It was real. Hogsmeade, the village nestled alongside the path to Hogwarts. Something he knew existed within the confines of this bewildering world. Relief washed over him, battling with the sudden anticipation of what awaited him at his destination. Would Dumbledore believe his impossible tale?
He was filled with nerves and the growing emptiness of days without a proper meal. But he walked on, the miles melting away a bit faster, his exhausted body driven by a renewed drive. The landscape began to shift, growing wilder and more rugged with each step. Mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist, a comforting echo of the majestic views surrounding Hogwarts.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson, he finally staggered into a familiar sight. The cobbled streets of Hogsmeade gleamed wetly in the dim light of the lamps. Small houses huddled together, their windows casting warm squares of light onto the deserted street. Goosebumps sprouted all down Harry's arms as happiness coursed through him like warmth from a fire.
He had made it this far, hadn't he? He would cross the last few steps to Hogwarts and seek out Dumbledore. Together they would find a way to set this right, to return him to his own time.
Exhaustion chewed at his resolve like a starving rat. Harry desperately craved the warmth and comfort of the Three Broomsticks, a decent meal, and even a bed for the night. But the thought of Dumbledore and the ever-present hope of a solution kept him walking. He couldn't delay. Every wasted minute was another minute further away from home.
Ignoring the enticing glow of the pub windows, Harry pressed onward, the path leading away from Hogsmeade ascending into the darkness.
The looming silhouette of Hogwarts against the indigo sky filled him with a desperate sort of courage. The weathered stone, those impossibly high towers; they represented a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting him to the world he knew, the life he craved to return to. The closer he got, the less this place felt like a strange mirror image of his reality, and the more it felt like home.
The massive gates that guarded the entrance, their wrought-iron bars casting long, sinister shadows in the moonlight, usually filled Harry with the thrill of returning after breaks. Now, they were an obstacle, a barrier between him and the only person who might be able to make sense of this situation.
His heart hammered in his chest as he drew closer. Here he was, trespassing on the grounds of his old school. He scanned the darkness for any sign of movement, any watchful eyes. Seeing nothing, he cautiously walked on. The grounds were eerily quiet. Not a single glowing window or echoing footstep hinted at life within those ancient walls.
The silence was a shroud, amplifying the pounding of his frantic heart. An intrusive image of Voldemort, his cold eyes gleaming with a terrible triumph as he stood victorious over Hogwarts, flitted through his mind, and he banished it with a shudder.
Before doubt could fully consume him, he broke into a stumbling run towards the front entrance. His ankle screamed in protest. With a final surge of adrenaline, he reached for the gates. His hand gripped the cold metal.
They were locked.
Panic ignited in his chest. He looked around frantically, seeking any other entrance, nothing but iron and foliage met his eyes.
"Think, think," he muttered desperately. A memory flickered – Hermione, her voice tinged with exasperated fondness, 'Honestly, Harry, use your head!' Pacing in a tight circle, he strained his mind, desperately focusing on a way in.
"I need an entrance. A way into Hogwarts. Please," he whispered, begging.
The gates before him did nothing. He reached for them again, despair began to wrap its icy tendrils around him when a flicker of movement in the darkness caught his eye.
Just as his fingers brushed against the cold metal, a booming voice echoed from the shadows. "Halt! Who goes there?"
The hulking figure emerged from the darkness, a crossbow slung across his massive torso. Familiar features came into focus – the wild tangle of beard, the surprisingly soft eyes, the patched moleskin overcoat stretched tight across his enormous frame. It was Hagrid. Relief, so sharp and fierce it bordered on pain, flooded through him. That voice, deep and with a West Country accent, was unmistakable. Everything would be alright now. Hagrid might be half-giant and prone to questionable taste in pets, but his heart was as big as his hut.
"Hagrid!" he called out, his voice cracking with emotion. He spoke the words before he thought them through, such was the emotion of seeing a friendly face. "It's me, Harry."
Hagrid squinted at him, his face creased in confusion. In the dim light, Harry could see the familiar wildness in Hagrid's beard, the warmth in his usually kind eyes replaced by a wary glint. The massive half-giant tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over Harry's dishevelled form and the ratty clothes taken from the charity shop. There was no recognition, only a deepening suspicion.
"Harry? I don' know no Harry," Hagrid's brow furrowed like an angry troll. He shook his head like a great, shaggy bear, voice thick with a caution that sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Now, be off with yeh, before I set Fang on yeh."
"But I need to see Dumbledore!" said Harry, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice as Hagrid walked towards him. "It's an emergency! Please, you have to believe me!"
Hagrid suddenly lurched to a stop, the crossbow held loosely in one enormous hand, his face an unreadable mask. He stared at Harry for a long, tense moment. Then, with a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle, he reached out to open the gates.
Hope soared in Harry's heart. He was going to Dumbledore! He was going to get this mess fixed and go home-
Harry's last thread of hope snapped as Hagrid moved with shocking swiftness for one so large. A rough hand the size of a dinner plate clamped around his mouth, stifling his cry. His vision blurred, the familiar outlines of the beloved castle fading with terrifying suddenness.
The last thing he remembered before the darkness enveloped him was the earthy scent of Hagrid's cloak, the faint rustle of leaves underfoot, and Hagrid's voice, rumbling like distant thunder.
"Don't yeh worry now, son. Jus' a little nap, then we'll sort this whole mess out, we will."
Harry awoke with a groan, his head pounding in time with the throbbing of his bruised ankle. Dreams of darkness had enveloped him, a sweet-scented abyss that promised relief from the aching pulse in his head and the pit of fear in his gut. Yet even amidst the oblivion, flickers of memory tormented him – Hagrid's looming figure, the menacing crossbow, the rough hand clamped over his mouth.
He awoke to a disorienting softness beneath him. Grey light filtered weakly through a high, barred window, casting a stark pattern across the rough stone floor. He was lying on a narrow cot, the thin blanket beneath him doing little to ward off the damp chill that permeated the air. A wave of nausea washed over him as the room spun dizzily. His wrists throbbed in protest against painfully tight bonds, and his ankles were similarly restrained. He was lying on a bed, the scent of lavender and old parchment hanging heavy in the air.
"Hagrid…" he moaned, the word heavy on his tongue. He tried to move, but the bonds held fast.
"Easy there, young man," A cool, crisp voice cut through the fog clouding his mind. He faintly recognised it. "Still yourself, and you won't need to be bound further."
He squinted, his blurred vision gradually focusing on a figure standing beside the bed. A woman, tall and severe, with her hair pulled into a tight bun. The woman reached to the bedside and put his glasses on his face. Déjà vu flashed as he remembered Dr. Price doing the same at the hospital. His eyes focused and instantly her emerald green robes and the sharp lines of the woman's features were recognizable despite her more youthful appearance.
"Professor McGonagall?" Shock filled him, momentarily overriding the throbbing in his head.
"The very same," she replied, her voice a disconcerting mix of weariness and caution at his knowing who she was.
It was his old professor, yet not at the same time. This McGonagall was younger, her posture harder, her eyes lacking the warmth he remembered. Still, seeing a familiar, if altered, face brought a sliver of twisted comfort in this increasingly bizarre nightmare.
Footsteps echoed in the room, and Hagrid lumbered into view, his expression showing discomfort and reluctant determination. In his hands, he carried the crossbow.
"He's awake, then, Professor?" asked Hagrid, his voice lacking its usual jovial tone.
McGonagall inclined her head stiffly. "Indeed. You did well, Rubeus."
Hagrid gave a short, uncomfortable nod. "Knocked 'im out cold. Not a peep till now."
Harry's head throbbed in protest against this maddening exchange. What was happening?
"So," McGonagall began, her voice cool, "Hagrid tells me you call yourself 'Harry'. There is no 'Harry' currently at Hogwarts, and you clearly do not belong here. The question remains outstanding; who are you and why were you trying to get into Hogwarts?"
Harry's head spun.
"But, Professor," Harry's voice cracked. "I – I came here for help. I was a student before-"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "You were found wandering the grounds in a dishevelled state, wearing those," she gestured disdainfully towards his pilfered clothes, "clothes and looking suspiciously like one of my students. Explain yourself."
Her tone sent a shiver down his spine. He knew she meant his father. Something he couldn't identify sizzled down his spine as he realised his parents were at Hogwarts. However, even worse was the look McGonagall was fixing him with.
"Professor, please," Harry pleaded, as he wiggled and made his bound wrists ache. "I can explain. I'm from another time. Somehow I've ended up here-"
"Enough!" McGonagall snapped, the authority in her voice resonating with an unsettling finality as her accent became rich with her Scottish brogue. "I will not entertain these lies. If you will not speak the truth and tell me honestly why you are here, then I will have no choice but to hand you over to the Ministry."
The words struck him like a Bludger to the chest. Lies?
"Hagrid," said McGonagall briskly at Harry's lack of answer, "arrange for transport. I will notify the Headmaster immediately and ensure the Ministry takes him into custody."
Desperation flared hotter than any dragon fire. "No! Professor – please – you have to believe me! I need to speak to-"
McGonagall's expression hardened. "You had your chance, young man."
Ice filled Harry's stomach. His mind raced, searching frantically for anything that would convince her.
"Dumbledore!" he blurted out, his voice ragged and desperate. "He'll listen to me. Take me to Dumbledore – he'll vouch for me."
McGonagall and Hagrid exchanged startled glances.
"Dumbledore," McGonagall echoed, her voice sharp. "You want to see Dumbledore?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster. He'll know how to help me – no offence," he added hastily, not wanting to upset the stern Scotswoman.
A heavy silence descended upon the room. Then, an unexpected flicker of determination kindled in Hagrid's eyes. He straightened his massive frame, meeting McGonagall's gaze with a newfound resolve.
"See, Professor," he began, his voice surprisingly firm, "the boy's bin asking fer Dumbledore. An' well, Dumbledore always said ter give everyone a chance, didn' he? Maybe… maybe the Headmaster could jus' have a word."
"Hagrid," McGonagall began. "You know full well-"
Hagrid interrupted her this time, cutting her off. "I think the Headmaster is goin' ter wan' ter hear this, Professor."
McGonagall's brow furrowed in disapproval, but a hint of uncertainty crept into her gaze. After a tense moment, she sighed. "Very well, Hagrid. I'll talk with the Headmaster – bring him with us."
Harry could have almost smiled. Finally! He was being taken to Dumbledore. Dumbledore could help him and make things right!
"Thank you," he said, the bonds cutting painfully into his wrists. "Thank you, Professor."
Ignoring the sceptical look McGonagall fixed him with, Harry turned his grateful gaze towards Hagrid. Even in this strange, bewildering reality, the half-giant's backing was a comfort. With Hagrid leading the way, they left the small room, navigating the familiar halls and corridors with agonising slowness. Harry's ankle throbbed in sync with every step. The castle itself seemed subdued. The portraits on the walls eyed him with suspicion, their whispered conversations fading as they approached. The ghosts melted away when they walked close.
They finally stopped before an imposing set of double doors, flanked by silent gargoyle statues. Intricate runes danced on the ground beneath Harry's feet, and he watched them move and swirl. "Wait here," McGonagall instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. Then, with a last, severe look at Harry, she disappeared behind the heavy doors.
Hagrid shuffled restlessly, his hands clenching and unclenching around his crossbow. He was obviously nervous and his dark eyes radiated sympathy as he looked at Harry. "Don't yeh worry, lad," he rumbled. "Yeh jus' tell 'im yeh story. He'll listen."
The gargoyle statues stared at Harry with unnerving intensity. Time seemed to stretch an age before the doors creaked open, and McGonagall reappeared, her expression unreadable. "The Headmaster will see you now," she said with a curt nod.
McGonagall clapped her hands and the runes beneath Harry's feet began to glow and swirl faster. He took a step back cautiously.
"Hey! What are you doi-"
Harry never got to finish his question as McGonagall brought her hands down swiftly and Harry's world disappeared around him in a flash of colour.
One heartbeat he was outside in the corridor, the next Harry was standing on the faded rug of the Headmaster's office, the scent-memory of sherbet lemon replaced with the acrid tang of old parchment and books. His stomach lurched, his battle-honed reflexes screaming for him to do something, but something held him back.
The room itself was simultaneously familiar and alien. Portraits whispered nervously on the walls, not with the usual playful curiosity but a hushed tone that chilled Harry to the bone. Dust speckles swirled in the air around him, and he noticed the lack of Dumbledore's usual odd assortment of silver instruments he kept. In their place were bookshelves lined with old tomes, and those not on a shelf were stacked upon desks.
Harry realised he had materialised on the plush rug of the Headmaster's office like a badly summoned apparition. Why hadn't he been allowed to walk the stairs? The nausea and disorientation faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a growing sense of dread. This felt like something to disorient him; it felt like enemy territory.
"I must admit, I wasn't expecting visitors today." A silky voice filled with polite amusement and caution drew Harry's attention towards it.
A chill colder than any Dementor's kiss gripped Harry's soul. Cold sweat erupted across his skin, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He fought to suppress a tremor in his limbs, turning slowly, each movement agonisingly deliberate.
And then, his gaze fell upon the figure seated behind the imposing oak desk.
Time seemed to freeze, every instinct screaming at Harry to flee. But his feet were rooted to the spot, limbs leaden, frozen by a fear so profound it bordered on paralysis.
It was him.
A silent scream tore through Harry's mind, trapped within the confines of his skull. He felt a squeezing pressure in his chest, his lungs burning for air that seemed to thicken and turn to ash in his throat.
There sat the figure who had haunted his every waking moment and invaded his nightmares since he was a child. The architect of unimaginable horrors, the orchestrator of unspeakable pain, the spectre that had loomed over his entire life; past, present, and future. Disconcertingly young, the face was smooth and handsome, devoid of the snake-like features and the grotesque mask of hatred that Harry knew so well. His eyes lacked the crimson glint that would one day terrorise the Wizarding world, yet their intensity was no less terrifying. Cunning and sharp, they pinned Harry to the spot, dissecting him with cold scrutiny.
Panic seized Harry, a suffocating wave of terror that threatened to drown him.
His eyes darted to the plaque on the desk, the inscription burning into his brain like a branding iron:
Headmaster T.M. Riddle.
A/N: Firstly, a massive thank you goes to my beta writer, Hollenheist, who painstakingly picked out all of my SPaG mistakes - I thank you and the time you take to edit my drivel. And a thank you those that have reviewed, followed and favourited this so far. I honestly never expected the response I have garnered so far. Your appreciation means a lot to me.
This was a small filler chapter, though hopefully without too much waffle. I have planned for twenty to thirty chapters overall, and this will be a slow-burn Harry/Bellatrix. There will be some set up before we dive into the action. Updates are planned for 1st every month, but this is subject to work, life things, etc. If I am able to, I may post two chapters monthly - but don't hold me to this!
I hope you enjoyed reading this. Please feel free to leave a review.