Chapter 1
Harry woke with a pounding headache that lingered, dull and oppressive as if the weight of a dream too heavy to carry had followed him into waking life. He blinked against the pale morning light filtering through the thin curtains of his small, familiar bedroom. He stayed still, disoriented momentarily, trying to recall the last thing he remembered.
The forest. Harry could almost smell the damp earth beneath his feet and hear the whispers of the trees as he walked through the Forbidden Forest. The faces of his friends flashed before his eyes—Ron, Hermione, Ginny—all so real, so vivid. And then there was Voldemort, the cold, inhuman eyes, the flash of green light. Harry's heart clenched at the memory.
But this… this wasn't the forest. It was the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. His mind raced, grasping for an explanation, for anything that made sense of how he had ended up here.
With a groan, he sat up in bed, rubbing his temples, hoping to ease the dull throb in his head. The room around him was exactly as he remembered from his years with the Dursleys—tidy, small, and utterly devoid of anything remotely magical. His old, broken alarm clock ticked away on the nightstand, showing half past seven.
This doesn't seem right. A wave of nausea rolled through Harry as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold, wooden floor. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of letting go, the acceptance of death as he faced Voldemort, ready to sacrifice himself. But now… now he was here.
His school uniform—Muggle school uniform—hung on the back of the chair in the corner. The sight of it made him frown. He hadn't worn it since before he knew he was a wizard. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He knew he was a wizard, didn't he?
Shaking off the unease creeping through him, Harry dressed mechanically, trying to make sense of the situation. Maybe this was some twisted dream, a trick of Voldemort's to torment him even in death. But everything felt too real—the scratchy fabric of the uniform, the tightness in his chest, the taste of morning breath.
When he went downstairs, the smell of frying bacon greeted him, along with Uncle Vernon's usual grumbling and the clatter of dishes. Aunt Petunia stood at the stove, her bony frame stiff as she turned the bacon into the pan. Dudley was already seated at the table, his bulk hunched over a bowl of cereal, shovelling spoonfuls into his mouth.
Harry hesitated at the kitchen threshold, his eyes scanning the scene. It was all so ordinary, like nothing had ever happened, like his entire life at Hogwarts was just a figment of his imagination. For a fleeting moment, he considered blurting it out—asking them where his wand was, what had happened to magic—but the knot in his stomach tightened, urging him to stay silent.
Instead, he slid into his usual spot at the table. Aunt Petunia slapped a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him without a word; her lips pursed in their normal expression of distaste.
"Look who's finally up," Dudley sneered, his mouth half-full of cereal. "Must've had a rough night, dreaming about your little fantasy world again, eh? Still waiting for that letter from a magic school?"
Harry's hand tightened around his fork. The words stung more than they should have, but he kept calm. He had to figure out what was happening before he could respond to Dudley's usual taunts.
Uncle Vernon grunted from behind his newspaper, lowering it just enough to shoot Harry a suspicious glare. "Don't start with that nonsense again, boy. You're going to school today, and you'd better not make a fool of us."
Harry's stomach turned. School? A wave of confusion washed over him. Hadn't he left all that behind when he turned eleven? But before he could say anything, Aunt Petunia dropped a stack of toast in the middle of the table, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.
"Eat up," she said sharply. "You've got to leave in ten minutes. Don't want to be late on your first day back, do you?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. First day back? Harry's head spun. He hadn't been to Muggle school in years. Why would he be going now? The whole situation felt like a sick joke, but the looks on the Dursleys' faces told him they were deadly serious.
Without much appetite, Harry forced down a few bites of toast, trying to push back the rising panic. His mind whirled with questions, none of which made any sense. Had he imagined everything? The letters, the train, the Sorting Hat, and all the adventures that followed—could it all have been a dream?
Yet, deep down, a voice insisted that what he remembered was real, that magic did exist. But as he looked at the Dursleys, all he saw was their indifference, their disdain for anything out of the ordinary. No sign was that they had ever acknowledged magic, not even with fear or hatred.
Dudley shot him another mocking glance. "Better hurry up, or you'll miss the bus. Wouldn't want to get detention on your first day, now, would you?"
Harry didn't respond. The bus, high school, and detention felt wrong, but he was alone, with no one to confirm or deny his memories. As he stood up from the table, the room spinning slightly, he couldn't shake the feeling that Harry was on the brink of something terrible, something that had torn his world apart while he slept.
Clutching his schoolbag, Harry stepped out the door, leaving behind the safety of Privet Drive's familiar yet suffocating walls. The early morning air was cool against his skin as he went down the street to the bus stop. But as he walked, the doubt gnawed at him—what if Dudley was right? What if it was all just a dream?
As the bus rounded the corner, Harry's hand instinctively reached for his scar, expecting the familiar twinge of pain. But there was nothing. Only the dull ache of his headache and the sickening thought that maybe, just maybe, everything he had believed in was nothing more than a fairytale.
Harry boarded the bus, his mind still foggy from the strange morning. The seats were mostly filled with sleepy teenagers, their faces glued to phones or slumped against the windows, lost in their worlds. As he made his way down the aisle, a familiar sight caught his eye—bushy brown hair and the outline of a well-worn book.
Hermione. Relief flooded through him. If anyone could make sense of this madness, it would be Hermione. She was always the one with the answers and could explain the unexplainable. Harry hurried down the aisle, his heart pounding with hope and anxiety. He dropped into the seat beside her, barely pausing to catch his breath.
"Hermione!" he yelled out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank Merlin, I found you! You won't believe what's been happening—I woke up at the Dursleys this morning, but everything's different. They're saying magic doesn't exist, and now I'm on this bus going to a Muggle school? What's going on?"
Hermione looked up from her book, startled by the sudden intrusion. Her eyes met Harry's, and for a moment, there was a flicker of recognition of the deep bond they had shared over years of friendship and adventure. But then, just as quickly, her expression shifted to mild annoyance.
"Harry," she said, her tone firm and matter-of-fact, "you need to stop with these daydreams. We've got more important things to focus on right now, like getting through school and preparing for exams." She held up the thick textbook she'd been reading, the cover displaying a title that made Harry's heart sink: Advanced Mathematics and Physics Curriculum, Year 11.
He blinked, taken aback. "But… but don't you remember? Hogwarts? Magic? All the things we've been through?" His voice wavered, the desperation seeping through despite his best efforts to stay calm.
Hermione sighed, marking her place in the book with a finger before turning to face him fully. "Harry, you must get your head out of the clouds. It isn't some fantasy novel. We're just normal students, and we need to focus on our studies if we want to get anywhere in life." She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, the smile she used to reserve for dealing with Ron when he was particularly stubborn.
The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. Hermione's voice was the same—calm, logical, with just a hint of exasperation—but the meaning behind her words was all wrong. Normal students? Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. She was Hermione, the brightest witch of their age, the one who had helped him defeat Voldemort and always had a plan. Yet here she was, dismissing everything as if it had never happened.
"Normal students?" he repeated weakly, feeling the world tilt on its axis. "Hermione, this isn't right. You must know that. You were with me in the Battle of Hogwarts! We fought Death Eaters together!"
Hermione's expression softened slightly, but there was still a trace of impatience in her eyes. "Harry, I think you've just been having some vivid dreams, that's all. Maybe you should talk to someone about them, but we must concentrate on school right now."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, to insist that this was all wrong, but the words died on his lips. He could see it in her eyes—Hermione believed what she was saying. She thought all their experiences were just dreams or fantasies Harry'd concocted. It was like a wall had come between them, a wall he didn't know how to break through.
The bus lurched to a stop, and Hermione closed her book, tucking it into her bag with practised efficiency. She stood up, smoothing out her uniform skirt before slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "Come on, Harry. We'll be late for class."
Harry followed her off the bus in a daze, his mind reeling. As they stepped onto the pavement, the familiar sight of the school building loomed ahead—tall, brick, and utterly mundane. It was nothing like Hogwarts: no enchanted ceilings, no moving staircases, just the plain, unremarkable structure of a typical Muggle high school.
They hadn't taken more than a few steps when Harry heard the unmistakable roar of an engine behind him. He turned just in time to see a beat-up blue Ford Anglia come to a screeching halt at the curb. The car's door flew open, and out stepped Ron Weasley, his red hair as wild as ever, though his clothes were more in line with the drab, everyday uniforms they were all forced to wear.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron called, grinning as he jogged over. "Same dream again, huh?"
Harry's heart skipped a beat. Dream? "What do you mean, same dream?" he asked, the confusion evident in his voice. He exchanged a glance with Hermione, who watched the exchange with a faint frown.
Ron laughed, clapping Harry on the back. "You know, mate, the one where we're all wizards and go to that castle school. You've been talking about it every morning for weeks now. Good one, though. You've got quite the imagination."
Harry stared at Ron, his mind whirling. "But… but it's not just a dream, Ron! It's real! You were there too! We went through all of it together!"
Ron's grin slightly faltered as he looked at Harry more closely, a hint of concern creeping into his eyes. "Yeah, sure, Harry," he said, more cautiously this time. "But, uh, maybe you should talk to someone about it, yeah? You've been pretty fixated on this stuff lately."
Harry's stomach twisted into knots. Even Ron, who had always been by his side, treated him like he was imagining things. The reality he knew, the one he had lived and fought for, was slipping through his fingers like sand, replaced by this cold, indifferent world where magic didn't exist.
Unable to find the words to argue further, Harry nodded, though his mind screamed in protest. As the three of them walked into the school together, the chatter of other students buzzing around them, Harry felt more lost than ever. Familiar faces surrounded him, but they were all wrong, as if someone had rewritten their lives and erased the most important parts.
And worst of all, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was the only one who remembered.
The trio barely made it to class before the bell rang. The hallway was still buzzing with students frantically stuffing their books into lockers or rushing to their seats. Harry, Hermione, and Ron slipped into the classroom just as the last chime echoed through the corridors, the teacher's arrival imminent.
Harry's eyes scanned the room as they found their seats, landing on another familiar face—Draco Malfoy. He leaned back in his chair, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he watched Harry walk in. Though he wore the same school uniform as everyone else, there was something about Malfoy that hadn't changed: the air of superiority, the cold, calculating glint in his eyes.
"Well, well, well," Malfoy drawled loud enough for everyone to hear. "If it isn't Potter and his little gang of misfits. Had any good dreams lately, Potter? Maybe you've finally realized you're just a nobody after all."
Harry felt his blood boil at the sound of Malfoy's voice. The sneering tone and how he always got under Harry's skin were all too familiar. But something was different this time—more cruel, more pointed. Harry clenched his fists, the urge to wipe that smirk off Malfoy's face almost overwhelming.
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snapped, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "Just because you're too thick to understand doesn't mean you can make fun of things you'll never get."
Malfoy's smirk widened, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Oh, touched a nerve, have I? What's the matter, Potter? Still daydreaming about being special? Newsflash: you're not. You're just another pathetic loser like the rest of them."
Harry's vision narrowed, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white. He took a step forward, ready to close the distance between them. All the confusion and frustration of the morning had built up to this moment, and Malfoy's taunts were the last straw.
But a sharp voice cut through the tension before Harry could do anything. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Malfoy! That's quite enough!"
The classroom fell silent as the teacher entered, his stern gaze sweeping over the students. He was an older man with thinning grey hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and an air of authority that commanded immediate respect. Professor Marchbanks, the History teacher, was known for his no-nonsense approach and deep European history knowledge. Unfortunately for Harry, he also had a reputation for being particularly harsh on those who didn't keep up with their studies.
Harry glared at Malfoy before reluctantly backing down and sliding into his seat beside Ron. Malfoy, still grinning, leaned back in his chair, clearly satisfied with himself.
"Now that we're all settled," Professor Marchbanks began, his tone leaving no room for further disruptions, "let's pick up where we left off yesterday. Today, we'll be discussing the Habsburgs and their influence on European politics during the 16th and 17th centuries. Can anyone summarize the key factors that allowed the Habsburg dynasty to maintain such a dominant position in Europe for so long?"
As always, Hermione's hand shot up when she knew the answer. But Professor Marchbanks ignored her, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Harry instead.
"Mr. Potter," the professor called out, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "perhaps you can enlighten us?"
Harry froze, his mind going blank. The Habsburgs? He vaguely recalled hearing the name in one of their textbooks, but the details were a blur. Back at Hogwarts, the History of Magic had been dull, but at least it was about something he cared about. European history, on the other hand, felt distant and irrelevant, especially compared to the life-and-death struggles he remembered from his real life—or what he thought was his real life.
"I, uh…" Harry stammered, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on him. Malfoy's smirk was back in full force, and even Ron looked like he was holding his breath. "I'm not sure, sir."
Professor Marchbanks's expression hardened. "Not sure?" he repeated, his voice cold. "This is basic knowledge, Mr. Potter. The Habsburgs were one of the most powerful dynasties in European history, controlling vast territories across the continent. Their influence shaped much of the political landscape of Europe for centuries. Perhaps you'd like to try again?"
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He could feel his face growing hot, the embarrassment washing over him. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't conjure up the facts the professor wanted. His mind drifted back to Hogwarts, to spells, magical creatures, and everything that felt real to him.
"I—I don't know, sir," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Professor Marchbanks sighed, disappointment evident in his tone. "This is unacceptable, Mr. Potter. You've been given ample time to study this material, yet seem completely unprepared. I expect better from my students. I'll need you to arrange a meeting with your guardians to discuss your lack of progress."
Harry's stomach dropped. A meeting with the Dursleys? The thought made him feel even worse. They would be furious, and he'd likely face another lecture about not embarrassing them or wasting their time.
"Yes, sir," Harry muttered, staring down at his desk, his face burning with shame.
Professor Marchbanks turned his attention to Hermione, whose hand was still in the air. "Miss Granger," he said, his voice softening just a fraction, "perhaps you can give the class the correct answer."
Hermione lowered her hand slightly, casting a sympathetic glance at Harry before speaking. "The Habsburgs maintained their power through strategic marriages, which allowed them to control a vast network of alliances across Europe. Their wealth and military strength also played key roles in securing their dominance."
"Correct," Professor Marchbanks said with a nod, his gaze flicking back to Harry. "I suggest you take a page from Miss Granger's book, Mr. Potter, and start taking your studies more seriously."
Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him, a mix of curiosity, pity, and scorn. But none of it mattered. What bothered him more than anything was the gnawing sense of wrongness that refused to leave him. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be sitting in a Muggle classroom, struggling to remember history lessons that didn't seem to matter.
As the lesson droned on, Harry's mind drifted. He kept his head down, trying to make himself as small as possible, but his thoughts were miles away. What is happening? Why doesn't anyone remember?
By the time the bell rang, signalling the end of the period, Harry felt like he was suffocating. He needed answers, and he needed them soon, or he feared he might lose his grip on reality altogether.