I.P Freely.
Harry of course didn’t die, he was the bloody boy who bloody lived, no matter the ridiculous odds.
It made him both laugh and cry in equal measures.
Harry gazed around himself blearily, annoyed by the screaming headache, the love child of the combined forces of florescent lights and white walls.
Harry had awoken in a small room, clothed this time thankfully, though not in the cloths he had stolen from that dead alien, this time he was in the familiar garb of a hospital medical gown, buttocks sunroof and all.
His dubious attire, the lack of color, the metal rungs on either side of his bed, and the burly fellows dressed in white that flanked a sour individual in lots of shiny metal and serious uniform, let him know exactly where he was: A muggle hospital, and in serious shit.
Ooo ooo ooo
For hours they questioned him, giving Harry the impression that they likely thought he was in cahoots with the aliens for some reason. Bad cop didn't work, as Harry's half bemused, half annoyed expression didn't change along with his vague monosyllabic answers.
Then they tried the gentler approach, asking if he had been kidnapped, studied, probed…why some blokes would would want to probe him, again, he had no idea, and when that venue exhausted itself without baring fruit, they finally just demanded outright why he had been there.
Harry shrugged and told part of the truth, he'd been wandering in the desert starkers minding his own business when the ship dropped out of the sky.
His answer frustrated them more then the others.
He'd told the truth…well, relatively speaking anyway, he told the truth from the time that he had awoken in the desert. Anytime before that though he took perhaps the most cliché route he could take, which is where the frustration was stemming from for his interrogators, but at the time it was the only thing he could think of.
“I don’t remember anything.”
Understandably his interrogators were somewhat disbelieving, and they got all suspicious and brought in men and women to examine him.
It was during their questioning that Harry realized that wherever he was, no matter how similar it may be to the world he left behind, this was not his Earth. His honest lack of knowledge about this new place, such as who the president of the United States was.
He thought he remembered something in a newspaper once a long while back, about some chap named Obama, which was true in his own world, at least he thought it was, but apparently not here, or at least not yet perhaps. His confusion over dates, years, and so forth combined with the state of his injuries and trauma when he was recovered, helped to back up the plausibility of Harry’s story.
There was nothing more they could get from him, and everything about his experiences with the aliens was picked clean (keeping his little magical interactions to himself), so eventually he was left be.
Ooo ooo ooo
A week later one of his doctors saw fit to inform him that he had been in the hospital for over a month, and since he had been in close proximity to the aliens, as well as being on their ship, the potential for possible contagion was strong (which is why those people had been covered in a protective layer of plastic over their official suits), so he was under quarantine as the aliens were, though being kept separate.
Harry didn’t argue with it much. They gave him the occasional book, occupied him with physical therapy, and several sessions with needles and constant examinations broke up the boring monotony.
He attended a weekly appointment with an appointed therapist, but she was frustrated by Harry’s absolute refusal to co-operate, often more interested in teaching himself the latest jingle from the telly that someone had thoughtfully put in his room.
He was finding he rather liked telly, having not had a chance to enjoy it between the Dursley's and the lack of technology in the Wizarding World. By the time his years on the run began he was to busy crouching in the latest hole to care about luxuries like television. Now though it was a vital source of information as it gave him a bit of a window into this new world.
The first thing he had noticed was the year.
According to the television it was 1988, which meant that he had not only gone into another dimension, but he had traveled back in time, which meant he would have to wait for toaster strudel and mp3 players, among a lot of things, if they even get developed at all in this dimension.
He learned that he was also in California, all the way across the pond in America of all places!
Rather amusing since according to the movies he’d seen over the years when he holed up in theaters from time to time, America was often alien central, and had given him a rather good cackle, disturbing the nurse giving him a sponge bath when he thought of the coincidence.
The next thing he learned was that the world was equal parts excited and leery of their new guests, particularly compounded by the news that they could not leave the planet was not going over well in some conservative corners.
Despite alot of public misgivings, Harry did see news reports on Civil rights activists on behalf of the aliens having sprung up recently, some of them backed by some major political clout.
Harry knew that it wouldn’t be long before the government gave into the pressure and would no longer have a leg to stand on when it was proven that the Newcomers, as they were being dubbed, were not a danger to the public.
This proved accurate as on the eve of 1989, 250,000 Newcomers, and one unknown human, were released from quarantine, given citizenship status, new names, and a chunk of the less reputable, shoddily cleaned up section of LA to form their own community.
Since Harry was sticking to his amnesia story like glue, including a handy lack of identity, he was also given a new name, Ian Paul Freeley, a small bit of money, and an apartment. he left the hospital the same day the Newcomers were released.
Harry kept the papers and money, but turned down the apartment and mandatory, though freely offered, shrink appointments, and promptly made himself scarce.