Chapter Text
Harry expected to die when he felt the wards fall on their tent. And if he didn't die immediately, he figured that it was only a matter of time before he was executed by Voldemort, or one of his minions.
He figured it would be pretty painless. After pouring so much magic into that ritual to send Hermione into the past, he knew he dropped himself into a coma, at the very least.
At worst… Well, there were worse ways to die than magical exhaustion. He can easily think of a few endings that Voldemort had in store for him, courtesy of the chunk of soul in his forehead.
But, given the fact that he isn't dead--or he doesn't think he's dead, anyway, since he is laying on a soft bed. Though it certainly feels heavenly, he's pretty sure the afterlife isn't quite so sterile.
As he's considering his metaphysical presence, his mind is taking stock of his surroundings, while he is pretending to be asleep. He quickly realizes that he must be more addled than he thought, because his environment is very familiar.
Because if he didn't know any better, he'd say that he was in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. Which is ridiculous, because he saw the ruins of the Ravenclaw tower fall into it, less than a year ago.
And Hogwarts would mean Voldemort, and he can't really see that bastard actually giving him a bed, let alone medical treatment.
Yet, even though he has just about convinced himself it's a hallucination, or really good illusion, he is still surprised that when he opens his eyes, he is actually in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. He almost recognizes the blanket of magic surrounding the bed, covered in monitoring and what he is assuming is a containment spell. And unless he really is hallucinating, he's seeing Madam Pomfrey walk purposefully over to his bedside.
"You're awake!" She exclaims, rushing over the last few feet when she sees that his eyes are open. "Given the state of your magic when Headmaster Dumbledore brought you in, we didn't think you'd wake for another few days, at the very least."
Her wand snaps to her hand as she shoots a stream of silver from it, the patronus not fully forming before it shoots off towards the closed doors of the Wing. She then turns the wand to Harry, who flinches minutely as he searches for his own wand.
The mediwitch gives Harry a frowning sort of look, but doesn't comment as Harry recognizes the diagnostic spells that flow from her wand. He relaxes, but still doesn’t take his sight from her wand--he still isn't certain this isn't an elaborate hoax or hallucination.
Since last he knew, Madam Pomfrey was killed in the massacre at Hogwarts protecting students as they tried to flee on brooms from the North Tower.
It doesn't take long before her wand stops moving, the frown still on her face. "Well, young man, it looks like there won't be any lasting damage to your core from whatever you did to exhaust it so. I will still keep you here overnight for observation, do you understand?" she says, fixing him with a gimlet stare that he certainly recognizes.
Yet, all he can think about is that she would call him young man, and not just "Potter," in that overly suffering tone he got to know so well over his six years attending Hogwarts. Things are not adding up, in his mind, and he is beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
She turns from him, and he finds his voice. "Do you--" He coughs, his throat sore from disuse. Madam Pomfrey helps him sit up and get some water. "Do you know where my wand is? My bag?"
She shakes her head absently, placing the glass of water on the tray table beside his bed. She fills it with her wand, and looks to him. "I'm sorry, I don't. Professor Dumbledore might know; he was the one who brought you in. Might I ask… who you are?" she asks curiously.
The bottom drops from his stomach as her words finally permeate his mind. Professor Dumbledore. She doesn’t know who he is? What in the world is going on?
It hits him, that for the first time, she doesn’t know who he is. He has no idea what is going on, but… He doesn’t have to be Harry Potter. He doesn’t have to deal with the baggage that comes with being the Boy-Who-Lived. It strikes him as odd, and a thought is formulating in the back of his mind.
Like always, he goes with his gut. "I'm Evan. Evan… Grim," he finishes with a grimace, mentally smacking himself. Clearly creative, quick thinking was beyond him at this point, and he prays that Hermione never learns about it.
"Well, Evan, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am the mediwitch here, Madam Promfrey. Please let me know if you need anything at all," she says with a slight smile, either not noticing or not commenting on Harry's pause before his name and the grimace afterwards.
This time when she turns, he lets her leave, too caught up in his thoughts to stop her. Yet, he isn't left to his thoughts for long, because the doors to the ward slam open.
Oh, he says in a small voice in his mind, that's what it's like to have a heart attack.
Because standing there, speaking to Madam Pomfrey, who had just bustled over, is Albus Dumbledore, resplendent in lime green and turquoise blue robes. But the old man wasn't alone. No, it appeared that he had a veritable retinue of followers, many of whom Harry recognized, from his own interactions with them, or from photos.
The first person Harry recognizes is Severus Snape. The old dungeon bat, looks the same as ever, all hook-nosed and scowling. Except, you know, not dead. Harry had personally witnessed the man's final act of defiance against Voldemort, because he bought Harry and Hermione enough time to get out from under the anti-apparation wards.
That isn't to say that Harry likes the guy. Sure, he can respect what Snape did to keep the students safe, but six years of hatred is a lot to get past.
Harry also recognizes Professor McGonagall. Behind her, is the mild mannered Remus Lupin, both of who died at the massacre of Hogwarts. Harry's eyes barely skitter over the others, in what feels like a second heart attack.
Because he is fairly sure the tall, roguish wizard elbowing Lupin is Sirius Black, his godfather, looking happier--and more alive (Harry shakes his head in disappointment in himself)--than Harry had ever seen him.
The others… Harry can't even contemplate. Harry looks away, rubbing his eyes of the dry grittiness that had collected during his nap. He wishes he had his pack, so he could take out the contact lenses Hermione had gotten him that summer. Frankly, he hated them, but he understood her concern of having him half blind if anything happened to his glasses in the middle of a fight.
It isn't long before Harry hears the group come to his bedside, and he looks up at the man he had, for so long, considered a mentor, as he sits at Harry's bedside. He isn't stupid though, and he doesn't quite make eye contact, staring instead at the man's lavish robes.
"You gave us quite the scare, Mr. Grim," the old man began. "I am told by Madame Pomfrey that you have questions. I am Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."
"You… you could say that I have questions," Harry says, his eyes skittering across the people gathered behind the old man, some lounging on the bed beside his. "Where am I?" he started, with probably the most obvious question.
A woman standing behind the Professor, with brilliant red hair, looks at him with a confused frown. "You don't recognize it? You are at the Hogwarts infirmary."
Harry, barely, refrains from rolling his eyes. "Clearly. I spent enough time here when I was a student. What I'm asking is… where am I?"
Harry was quite proud that his voice didn't crack despite the fact that he was clearly surrounded by dead people. He thinks that maybe he recognizes a woman from the Order of the Phoenix as Vence, or Vance, or something, who escaped to the mainland a few weeks after the massacre at Hogwarts, but he knows that all these people died.
Despite the mini-heart attacks earlier, Harry thinks that he is taking this mass resurrection urprisingly well. He is still hoping that he is in a hallucination, but the longer he's here, the more dread settles in his stomach.
Dumbledore chuckles and he turns to the woman. "He certainly is clever, Lily, to have deduced as much from as little he has seen." He turns back to Harry, who is in the middle of a mental meltdown, trying not to look at the woman beside Dumbledore who may or may not be his mother. "My dear boy, where do you think you are?"
Harry doesn't listen to him. He is a little too preoccupied with not looking at the rest of the people in the room, lest he break down and cry. With almost more strength than he thought he possessed, he looks back at the Headmaster. "Where is my wand? My… bag?"
There is a distinctly barking laugh from behind the Headmaster, and Harry couldn't help but cringe slightly. "You mean that purse that came with you? Moony has been trying to crack the charms on it for days now!"
All Harry's energies are working towards not reacting, not giving himself away, as he looks at the crooked nose of the Headmaster. "Yes, like Mr. Black has said, we do have the bag you… came with. And your wand," he says, pulling a very familiar wand from his robes. As Harry reaches out for it, the old man holds it back slightly. "But first, I think we need to have a conversation."
"I agree," Harry says, his voice noticeably cooler. To him, withholding his wand just about guarantees that Harry will be as uncooperative as possible. Intellectually, he understands why these people--who obviously don't know him--would want to vet him first before handing him a live weapon. But on a personal level, he can finally see clearly without being clouded by his emotions.
Despite the fact that it appeared he was surrounded by dead people he loved and/or respected, these weren't the same people who gave their lives for something they believed in. "I think you need to tell me where exactly I am, and how exactly I got here."
"Now listen here, boy," Snape began from where he was, beside Dumbledore, pushing forward and attempting to make eye contact, sneering into Harry's face.
"Severus," the red haired woman interrupts heatedly, "He has a reason to be upset, I mean we did summon him from--"
"Lily!" Snape snaps, turning his glare from Harry to the red headed woman, backing up so he wasn't quite in Dumbledore's face any longer.
Harry closes his eyes as his stomach drops once more. Until she had said it… he had been able to pretend. Say it was a hallucination. Make believe it was a dream. But now that she has given the thought life... Well, there was no stuffing that back into Pandora's box.
"Why would you summon me?" he asks plaintively. "How…?"
"Well," Professor Dumbledore says almost joyfully. "That is an interesting story. You see, we have been losing the war against Voldemort," Harry almost scoffs when the collective flinch occurs behind the old man, "for quite some time now. I assume you know who Voldemort is?" he asks Harry.
Harry merely nods, while arching an eyebrow at the man.
"So, we needed a champion. Someone to help us win this war for good. And that is where you come in."
Harry can't quite contain his scoff this time. The red headed woman turns her anger to Harry, "You don't know what it's like! You can't possibly understand how bad it is for us!"
That ignites a spark of rage in Harry. "What make you think that I can even help?" he bites out at the Headmaster, the anger curling up in him like an old friend.
"Ah, that was the nature of the ritual, you see. The runic conversions were quite specific, searching for someone with the potential to defeat Voldemort, a champion from their own realm. I had assumed that it would choose someone from a parallel universe, someone who has already faced Voldemort."
The fire is stoked by the old man's words. "Yeah, you can say that I've faced that bastard. It's been a few times, now. But I'm no hero; I can't help you."
"You have to!" Lily cries, "I designed that ritual myself! You've faced him, you have to help us!"
"I don't have to do anything," Harry bites out. "And just because I've faced him, doesn’t mean I've won."
With that, a hush settles around the room. Sirius stops his rough housing, and all conversation ceases. Lily's passion decreases, transforming into confusion. "What are you talking about? Of course you have."
"Did you specify that your hero won his confrontations?" Harry scathingly replies, so sneeringly that he surprises some of his anger away by sounding so much like Snape.
"No…" the woman says, trailing off. "It was implied though. I mean, how can you confront You-Know-Who, without winning?"
Harry laughs humorlessly. Lily looks at him with mounting horror. "You say that I can't possibly understand how bad it is for you? Nearly every person in this room, in my dimension, is dead. The only ones who aren't dead, fled, over six months ago. I've survived as long as I have because I'm lucky."
He looks at everyone in the room, even those his mind shies away from, and is darkly satisfied by the ashen look on Dumbledore's face, the shock on everyone else's.
"I didn't win my war, how can you expect me to win yours?"