Chapter 2
Harry brings the cup to his lips with a frown. A pause. Ginger floods his nostrils. He can’t help the shiver that crawls down his back. It’s strong, too strong. He sets the cup back on the table with hesitation.
What kind of game was this?
He paced the room he’s in for what felt like hours. Walked from one end of a beautifully decorated bedroom to the other. Nothing happened. Not a scream of pain as a tortured body was laid before him, not a spell of fire consuming his own flesh. Nothing.
Birds chirp outside. Rolling hills and a bright colourful sky greets him happily once more as Harry walks back to the lone window. They sing a peaceful melody to a downright terrifying situation.
“What do you want now, Voldemort?”
A breath more than a whispered question. It still hangs in the silence. Unheard, or ignored?
His reflection tilted its head. One side, to the other, again. And again. And one more time. He’s so clean. And he’s healed. Harry doesn’t know what it says about him that he noticed the absence of dirt before he noticed his eyes, both of them, looking perfect.
His nose twitches.
Harry shakes his head. Trying to ignore the tantalising scent of a liquid that isn’t dirt water. It might do who knows what to him. Put him to sleep for eternity, cause hallucinations, the sky was the limit. He can’t drink it. Won’t. Shouldn’t.
His head turned without permission. Voldemort could easily threaten him to drink it, and he would. What’s the point of this battle? It’ll either hurt him, or inconvenience him.
It smells so good.
Fingers clench the wooden frame of the window.
No, he’s better than that.
Are you though? You did plunge that shard right into your own-
Harry’s hands fly off the frame and to his throat. The area’s smooth. Not a single clue that he did something so bold.
A flash of horrified -green, just like his own. So green, green, green- eyes growing distant atop a train. Harry blinks and the memory(?) flutters away. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs. It’s a muddled mess, nearly impossible to sort out right now. Especially with the way his head is pounding nonstop.
Pop!
Tension, anticipation, and-
Nothing. It’s like his heart has been taken right out of his body. Because standing in front of him, holding his head while fat tears roll down the poor thing’s face, is none other than Dobby. Poor dead Dobby. Brave heroic Dobby, who should be very much dead.
Harry stands as still as he can. Holds his tongue with his teeth. Holds the air in his lungs till it hurts.
Dobby’s words are almost incomprehensible with his wailing.
“O-oh Friend Harry sir! D-dobby is so sorry! He didn’t mean to, it’s not his fault. Please, kind Harry, don’t tell anyone.”
“What…?” Harry trails off. He’s surprised Dobby even hears him.
Can house elves become ghosts? He holds out a hand. He wants to pretend his arm isn’t shaking, it is.
Warmth. The elf is so warm. Dobby’s arms wrap around his hand while he falls to his knees.
“Dobby didn’t mean to cause harm to Friend Harry, sir!”
“D-…Dobby, what’s going on?” Harry gets out the only words he can. The elf trembles in terror.
This has yet to feel like reality to him.
He, nonetheless, joins Dobby on his knees, wrapping the crying elf in a hug. Because it might be reality, this might be real. Even if the chance is less than a million, his (dead?) friend needs him. Even if this will cause him pain. Even if his friend will turn to vapour the second Harry lets go.
He fell to each illusion Voldemort used on him. Every. Single. One.
Something in him agrees with his delusion though. Screams that Voldemort would never think to use a house elf Harry knew as a way to torture him. His friends yes, his family yes, but never a creature that should be beneath wizarding kind.
“Oh Friend Harry, everyones scared for sir. They helped, they really did. I didn't mean to bring harm! Dobby is a terrible elf, bad!”
Harry hugs Dobby tighter. He doesn't understand him, but it doesn’t matter.
“No, you’re great. Awesome actually. You’re one of the bravest beings I know.”
Dobby raises his head from Harry’s neck, “Harry Potter is so kind. So kind, but silly. It is not good to hurt a friend. Dobby is not brave.”
It feels different. More grounded. Illusions fade at the edges, Harry faced enough, learned enough, that he stopped using them. Maybe he did succeed? Dobby died, and so did he?
Can heaven exist for someone like him?
“-But Dobby is glad Friend Harry is okay!”
“What happened, Dobby?” Seeing the elf about to start crying once more, Harry continues, “everything’s a mess in my head, please.”
Dobby takes a step back from the hug, looks to the door and the window, and back to Harry, “Friend Harry was almost gone. Yous couldn’t get up. I called for help.”
He tugs on his ears.
“They don’t know… don’t know it was Dobby's fault!”
It finally clicks that Dobby is worried about others. Though his afterlife friend is still far from making sense, the idea of others sends a jolt of panic though Harry.
“They?” He blurts out.
Dobby viciously nods his head, “of course sir! Almost everyones was scared sick.”
Harry opens his mouth and-
“No, I should go in alone!”
“Honey, he’s our son.”
-listens to the voices coming from the door.
Dobby freezes as the doorknob slowly opens, turning back to Harry. Eyes wide as saucers, he whispers, “please kind sir, don’t tell them,” and pops away. So much for getting information out of his friend.
Harry jolts into action. Scrambling from his seated position to standing, he holds his head. Trying to push through the pain (he’s been through worse, far worse). Wide eyes search for anything, wand, something sharp, they land on the window instead. He might not be able to defend himself with his headache, but he can very much flee. Loathe he to admit so. He flings the window open -surprised it even opens- and almost tumbles out from the force of his push. He catches himself before he goes over and into the lush gardens below.
Or, more like something forcefully tugs him back.
The window slams closed in front of him.
This is it. This is when the pain begins again. He didn’t drink the tea, he got comfort from a long gone friend, and he tried to flee, it’s over for him. He wonders who it’ll be this time? Arthur Weasley? Remus? Maybe Hermione and-
“Harry James Potter, where in the world are you running off to?”
A click of a tongue, “James, we’ve talked about this. He’s probably embarrassed and wants-“
Harry turns around. Slow, as though not to spook this illusion away. (It’s too sharp, too focused. How can this be an illusion?) His parents greet him. His mother looks at him with such love as she tries to lower his dad’s wand hand. His dad has the look of a man who is far too scared to follow his wife’s lead. His hand lowers inch by inch as Harry stays rooted in place. They look… different. Gone is the clear skin of youthfulness, wrinkles of old decorate both their faces. They hold themselves not like veterans of a war, but as individuals who’ve lived a life of plenty.
Harry doesn't know who to keep his attention on. His eyes flicker to one and back. Does one age in heaven? Dobby didn’t seem older.
His mother is the first to break the silent spell. She rushes forward. Arms wrap around him and tug him firmly to her chest. Red hair peppers his damp face.
“Oh hon, how are you feeling? Is your head feeling alright? We were so worried.”
His dad follows shortly after. Enveloping them all into a tight hug.
“Decided to give us all a scare last night, huh?”
James’ voice shakes. Lily’s arms constrict like a boa’s.
He is suffocating. He’s cocooned in warmth (illusions don’t have warmth to give, what is this??) it’s drowning him. Boiling him from the outside in. He would have given anything for this years ago. Anything. Yet now...
“Let. Go.” Harry doesn't mean to sound so cold, so harsh. It comes out that way anyways. An order than any kind of plea.
His parents step back, as though burned by his frosted words. Confusion, concern, surprise evident in their eyes.
Lily clears her throat, “I know we had a small disagreement before but Harry, you almost died. Can’t a mother be worried for her son?”
James crosses his arms, “don’t be rude Harry.”
They gaze at him, expectant. For what, Harry hasn’t a clue. Though they look so much like his parents, they aren’t. He doesn't know them. His parents died. End of story (Is it though? A voice nags at him, is it really?)
A sigh escapes James, “I get it kiddo, we’ve all been having a rough patch but that doesn’t mean you should lean on alcohol to save you. Merlin knows that never helped me.”
“…Alcohol?”
His voice is still too sharp. He sees that in the way his mother continues to look at him, worry increasing second by second.
“You know what happened-“
“I don’t,” instinct tells Harry to not show this weakness, this fault in his knowledge. But it’s his parents(?). He pushes his hair out of his face in frustration.
Lily walks over to the bed and sits down, holding her head while she peaks between a hand to look at him rooted to the same spot they found him in. Anxiously, she twirls some hair.
“Do you really not remember?” She breathes out.
“Of course he remembers! I did the same shit as a kid myself. It’s to get out of any consequences.”
“James.”
James leans against the door, taps his foot, “I’m not leaving, we’re long overdue to have this conversation.”
Harry scratches at his forehead; at an itch that does not exist. He doesn't say another word. He won’t. He gave a weakness and if they don’t want to bring him up to speed, then they won’t get any more possible weaknesses from him.
Lily groans, “this is not the time for this.”
“Then when is it, hmm? It’s never the time with you! You can’t keep coddling Harry forever.”
James froze. He went too far, Harry could see that as he raised his hands up. Harry watches in detachment as Lily’s head snaps towards her husband.
“I do not coddle him. And this-“ she sweeps the room with her hand, “needs to be dealt with first. End of discussion.”
Would this have been his family dynamic? If they were alive by the end of the first war, would this be them? Though James rolls his eyes, he still follows along. Though Lily is furious at him, she does not kick James out of the room. They both still look at him with concern. Harry’s heart hurts.
Tears prickle his eyes as Lily looks at him again, “what’s the last thing you remember dear?”
Sirens screech at him in his mind; Warning him not to tell. He can’t give his vulnerability away. And unfortunately, Dobby gave nothing to give a good lie. So he snaps. Anger has always been a versatile tool for evasion
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees James open his mouth, it closes quickly with a look from Lily.
“Well, we found you outside. Soaked to the bone. No magic worked to dry you off or wake you up,” her voice becomes almost strained, “we also found an empty bottle of whiskey near you and I’m sure you can guess the rest. It took hours, but I was able to call out to you and get you to breathe.”
(It’s an almost painful tug. A pressure that keeps building without end. It drags him down, and up, and sideways. Every which way he’s tugged along till he gasps-)
“Oh,” is all Harry allows himself to say.
There’s a beat of silence.
“…was this intentional?”
Harry almost doesn't get what his mother asked him. Only gets it as his father sits down with Lily. Harry sees him subtly take Lily’s hand with a squeeze.
“We’re here for you if-“
Oh. Amusement washes over him. That’s what they’re asking about. Lying has never been easier.
“No. It was, an accident,” Harry touches his unblemished throat, “had too much to drink and lost track of time outside. Nothing more.”
A picture is forming. Slowly, but it’s coming along. Doesn’t explain what the hell is going on, but he can figure that out with time.
His parents share a look between themselves.
“Alright. But, we are here for you if you ever need us. So are your friends. You can talk to any one of us, okay?”
“Right.”
There’s an alwardness now. Harry is too still, too quiet to what he’s supposed to be. He’s far too tired to try to figure out how he needs to act though. They leave soon enough anyways. With more supportive comments and uncertain smiles, Harry finally gets them to leave. It’s strange. He’s concluded that this can not be an illusion. Maybe it’s a hallucination or some kind of induced dream state, but it can’t be an illusion. Though everything doesn’t make sense for it to be any of the other two either. Everything is too complicated. There’s Dobby, and his parents’ comments, and the realness of the pillow he’s picking at. Not to even account for his healed injuries. Something isn’t adding up.
And where is Voldemort? No gloating, no curses, nothing. It’s as though he’s disappeared. He picks up the teacup again. Maybe it contains some antidote for… whatever this is.
Harry doesn’t know if he should be more worried that nothing happens or glad. He finishes the ginger tea. Headache slightly abating. Birds circle the bottom of the cup. Serpent coiled in the centre. Numbly, he sets the cup down. He does not need, nor wants, to handle any kind of divination.
It’s never done him any good.
He lies in bed till the sun rises high in the sky. The colourful dawn sky now is a breathtaking blue. It’s mesmerising. Being in a dirt prison for years really lets one appreciate the small things. Yet, the beauty is nothing compared to freedom. His eyes flick to the door every few minutes. Will it open? He has yet to check. Because if he tries to open it and it doesn't budge, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle that. So, he stays in bed.
Where is your Gryffindor bravery? His mind hisses at him. Harry snorts. Do lions live underground? No, they don’t.
Even so, the door calls to him. What’s behind it? A void? His dirt prison? Some kind of afterlife? He gets up without being fully aware of it. Maybe Harry can finally rest. He’s been through too much. Seen too much. Done too much.
He pushes. It opens with a quiet click.
His dreams of an afterlife -of finally being at peace- are shattered when he comes face to face with-
A hallway.
An ordinary hallway. Well, not quite ordinary. Portraits sneer at him, some wink, and others brightly smile. Dark green and blue greys pepper the otherwise dark wood hall. It reminds Harry of a certain manor. One he dearly wishes he’s not in. Other than that, there’s nothing. No Death Eater awaiting him, a curse ready at the lips and finger pressed to an arm. It’s quiet.
He continues to walk, for what else is there to do? Find Dobby? If he found Harry first, then he must know what happened. At least he can hope.
The corridors stretch on and on. They twist and turn like a confusing mess. The hallways spew him out into a drawing room. A cold room, sucked out of any warmth. He knows this place. And though his insides twist with discomfort at his realisation, that doesn't change the fact that he’s in Malfoy Manor.
(Hermione screams as she’s cut open. Blood dripped onto the floor. She sees him looking. He turns his head away as another scream is ripped from her throat.)
Harry swallows past the lump in his throat and continues on. Maybe he just needs to leave. Maybe he’s in hell and he needs to find a way out. Maybe.
“Harry?”
It takes everything in him to not bolt.
Instead, he slowly turns back into the room.
“The hell are you doing out of your room, huh? Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?”
Draco Malfoy looks weird. His platinum hair is in a low ponytail, reminiscent of Lucious. He’s lounging in an armchair, stretching his hands high. Looking at Harry not with pity but with a playful smile. There are no dark circles marring his face. And the biggest change, the one that takes Harry’s breath away, is his revealed forearm. No longer is there a deep gash -hands clawing during the day, dagger picking at certain areas during the night- obscuring the dark mark. It’s clear. Unsullied skin.
“Oi!” Draco relaxes further into his seat, “did you hear what I just said?”
“Huh?”
The boy- man(?) sighs, “you joining us for dinner or skipping?”
Harry just blinks.
“Sweet Merlin, did the whiskey scramble your brain that much? You’re acting like a buffoon.”
He twitches. Hand aborting the motion to reach for a wand
“What the hell is going on Malfoy?”
“Ooo ‘Malfoy’, is brainless Potter feeling feisty because he’s embarrassed?” Malfoy laughs.
Harry continues to stare at him. Not a hint of amusement on his face.
Malfoy’s laughter dies down.
“Look, I’m just asking because he’ll want to know. And he's pretty pissed right now. Just being a good friend, be grateful or something,” he grumbles out.
“He?” Foreboding builds in his gut. Does he mean Voldemort? Why would he want to eat dinner with him? (It’s wrong, everything is all wrong.)
Malfoy raises a brow, “yeah?”
Harry narrows his eyes. He’s getting sick of people not answering his questions.
“Whose ‘he’?”
“Oh wow, your party with death really did make you stupider. He, Harry. Your husband? You know, the man who will be the most worried about your death, not counting your parents, he.”
What. The. Fuck.
Malfoy shrugs in exasperation, “I’ll just tell him you need more rest. Good lord.”
“No. I’ll go,” he doesn't know why he agrees, his blood runs quicker. But there’s something in his bones telling him there will be hell to pay if he doesn't go to this “dinner.”
“You sure? You’re acting weird.”
Harry’s acting weird? That’s just funny.
“No, I’m fine. Just… things are a little foggy is all.”
Malfoy hums before shrugging again and picking up his book, “whatever, just don’t get it all ‘fogged up,’ I didn’t give you any alcohol. It’s not my fault.”
“Right.”
He’s still staring at him. Is this, real?
Malfoy glances up, rolls his eyes, “well? Get going. I’ll get you when it’s dinner time.”
Harry goes. Wonders the hallways once more like a ghost. Every interaction, every physical sensation, points to this being real. That this is now his reality. All his hypotheticals sound more insane every minute than just saying this is real. But how can it be? It can’t.
He finds his way back to the room. It’s familiar at the end of the day, safety to his lizard brain. He looks around the room, something he didn’t do before he went exploring. It’s lived in, this room. The closet is filled with articles of clothing, some new, some ragged and old. A golden snitch in a drawer here, another in the dressor. And there, right next to the almost empty teapot and a vase of flowers, is a wand with a note. A wand. Cedar if Harry had to guess.
-Harry,
We’re trusting you not to run off. Hope to see you at dinner!
Love,
Mom and dad
He puts the note down. Is this a trick? His eyes gleam with hunger at the want. Does it matter?
He reaches to it, smiles.
A shower of tiny silver sparks light the room. It’s not his Holly, far from it. But it’s a wand. Magic coils through the wand as he swishes it at the vase.
Nothing.
His smile slips from his face. He flicks at the vase again.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” he hisses out.
Still nothing. His eye twitches. Though the wand greeted him as an old friend, it practically refuses to do magic.
He jabs at the vase one more time, dejected. But what did he expect? To be given a wand that listened?
It floats up. Barely.
It’s still a wand, Harry tells himself. Still a weapon. It’s fine if it’s a bit stubborn, they can work on that.
He misses his holly wand. It’s an echo of an ache. He said his goodbyes to it as it was snapped in front of him. As he gave it away to be snapped. It’s been years since he even considered that he’ll ever use a wand again. He got over it. Yet, it still hurts that it’s not his wand.
He closes his eyes for a second, breathes, and continues to practise.
Knocks snap Harry out of his concentration. He furrows his brow and glares at the door. He’s been making good practice. It listens better, not well, just better. But he really didn’t appreciate being interrupted. He grits his teeth as he lowers the flowers back into the vase.
“You better have not changed your mind! Let’s go.”
Harry blinks. Is it time for dinner already? One look out the window says yes, it should very much be time.
Its a strange feeling walking along with Malfoy. He thinks he’s coming to accept this new reality(?). Between practise, and short breaks, he’s discovered quite a bit about where he is. It’s still far from making any sense, but he now accepts some fundamental facts. One, his parents are alive. Two, he’s alive. Three, this is all real. It took a while for the last one to really sink in. But there’s no other explanation.
Could he have fallen into a different reality? Ginny and he spent hours outside talking about “what if’s.” What if there was no war? What if there was never a Dark Lord?
Do you think there’s a world out there where we live happily ever after?
Hermione thought alternative worlds were stupid. And honestly, Harry was with her on that one. Furthermore, what’s the point of thinking of such things when people were dying? Waste of time. Now though, now he wishes he asked Luna a bit more questions. Hypothesised some more with Ron and Ginny.
(A train screeching away. A figure waving at him as it grows more and more distant.)
“Alright, just act normal okay?”
Malfoy’s comment brings him back to the present. Harry nods his head. He’ll continue going along with this all. At least until he can get a better wand and find a way back to his own reality. If that’s even what happened.
The blond man pushes the doors open and Harry is greeted with a fresh scent of food. It’s overwhelming. He keeps swallowing to stop the spit from spilling out his mouth.
He’s surrounded by faces he should know but doesn't. Lucious and Narcissa Malfoy look at him too warmly. His parents greet him too happily. A dark haired man who doesn’t even turn to engage with him, waiting for James to continue their own conversation.
He’s pushed forward by an annoyed Malfoy, “go sit down.”
Malfoy makes his way to his father’s right hand side. Harry fiddles with his shirt. The orientation isn’t what he expected. In the centre is the Malfoy patriarch, nothing surprising there. Then, Malfoy jr, Narcissa Malfoy, Lily Potter. The other side of the table; James Potter and the unknown man. To make it symmetrical, he should sit by the man. But does he have to?
It’s quiet now. Everyone has turned to stare at him questionably, except the man.
“Harry, why don’t you sit down?” His mother’s voice is strained with uncertainty. She flicks her wand out and slightly pushes the chair in front of her out.
With the choice now made for him, Harry sits down. Finally the man next to him glances over.
He keeps his mouth shut as conversations rekindle around him. Because if he says something, it will undoubtedly, be to murder the man sitting right next to him. The only thing that stills his hand, That keeps his mouth pressed firmly shut. Is the single glance the man gave him. For it’s not one of hate, or sickly pressure, or mad obsession, no it’s nothing like that. The look that Tom Riddle passed over him is filled with boredom, a hint of annoyance, and nothing more.