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Chapter Text

A boy, lying upon a bed, awoke and found himself in a small curtained-off room. The room seemed to be illuminated by glowing orbs that were floating about the ceiling, as if they were bobbing in a body of water. He looked down at what he was wearing and found that he had on a hospital gown with the words St. Mungo’s embroidered on a violet ribbon around his left sleeve. 

So that's where he was, St. Mungo’s, the wizarding hospital of Magical Britain. The boy recalled that he had been here once, on a visit with his friends. But why was he here now? He stared off at the matching Violet curtains, thinking, but nothing much came to mind. His thoughts seemed to float away from him every time he tried to focus on one particular thing. 

That was odd. He certainly recalled being quite a focused individual. Level-headed and cunning, far more cunning than one of his former classmates— what was his name again? Ah, yes, Hagrid.

Hagrid, if he remembered correctly, was never all that bright. Quite the opposite actually; a rule breaker, and stupid half-breed—

But no, that's not right. Hagrid was his friend; he was the one who introduced the boy to the world of magic in the first place. Or was it Albus Dumbledore who brought the boy from that awful place he grew up in to Hogwarts, a place where he wouldn’t need to be afraid of anyone trying to bully him for being different? A place where he could be himself, where he could be free.

But he wasn’t so free at Hogwarts, was he? Dumbledore always kept a close eye on the boy. How it irked him, being forced to hide so many things, to be so very careful. Especially after Hagrid was expelled, Dumbledore never let up.

Even when he had to leech off that bumbling idiot Quirrel, Dumbledore was always one step ahead of him. Using the mirror was an annoyingly clever ploy, he admitted.

But Dumbledore was always so kind to the boy. He remembered waking up in the hospital wing, at the end of his first year, after he had stopped Professor Quirrell from stealing the Philosopher's stone— after he had stopped Voldemort from stealing the stone… 

Voldemort. Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard to ever live— no, why was he thinking like this? Voldemort had killed his parents and had tried to kill Harry Potter, too. Harry Potter… he was Harry Potter. Yes, his father was a Muggle, and his mother was a witch. No, those were Voldemort's parents; Harry’s parents— Lilly and James. 

They had worked for the Order— for Dumbledore . They had worked against the Dark Lord, Harry Potter. Harry’s faithful servant, Wormtail, had been so useful in revealing where the Potters lived—

What was happening? Why was he thinking these things? Nothing added up. Was he Harry or was he Voldemort; Voldemort or Harry? 

The boy shoved his face into his hands and began crying. 

I’m not evil , am I? Thought the boy. But what is evil if not the witches and wizards who would dare fraternize with filthy muggles!

There’s nothing wrong with muggles, was there? The only difference between wizards and muggles was magic. Harry knew this, surely.

But muggles were not like wizards. Wizards were great; they were powerful! And what were muggles but mere pigs , compared to even the worst scum of wizard kind. Disgusting, oaf-ish, idiotic—

“Ah, Harry, you’re finally awake.” The boy looked up and saw a kind-looking woman wearing white and velvet robes. “Here, let me fetch you some water.”

Harry, she had called him Harry. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. She was back a moment later, carrying a silver tray with a glass of icy water.

“Here you are, now drink up.” She surveyed him warmly. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m…” he whispered. “I’m Harry— Potter?”

“Why, yes, of course, dear, perhaps that coma—” she stopped. “Well, don’t you worry, young man, I’ll send for Dumbledore. He’ll be wanting to know you’re awake.”

At that, the woman left, and the boy was once again alone with his thoughts. She called him Harry. He put his hand to his forehead and felt—

“A scar,” he whispered. “The one I gave that boy… or perhaps the one Voldemort gave me…?”

Chapter Text

Harry was staring off into his thoughts when an old, bearded man, adorned in red velvet robes, walked through the curtains; it was Albus Dumbledore. He looked as wise as Harry had remembered him to look. With his half-moon spectacles and sparkling sapphire eyes, he gave Harry a look he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Good afternoon, Harry.”

The boy only nodded in response; he was still tired and much too confused to properly respond.

“It is very good to see that you’re awake. I came as soon as I received the owl from your nurse — very kind lady, Ms. Tomornia.”

“She… gave me water,” Harry said, glancing at the untouched glass on his nightstand.

“It seems as though you’ve barely drunk any; it would be a pity to let that go to waste, Harry.”

He grabbed the cup and took a sip, finding it quite odd as Dumbledore gestured for him to drink more. By the end of it, Harry had gulped down the entire glass, only feeling a slight bit more lightheaded than he had when he’d first woken up.

“Professor, why am I in St. Mungo’s? I mean, last I remember, you were battling—” Harry felt himself want to say me; he had to force the word down his throat. “Lord— Lord Voldemort. What happened after that?”

Dumbledore only looked at the boy with a pondering look in his eyes. “Do you not remember what took place after the fight? Do you not remember what the Dark Lord did?”

“No, not at all,” he replied honestly.

“Curious.”

“Was I obliviated? Professor, what did he do?”

“Before I tell you, I have something I must ask you.”

“Yes?”

“It will seem quite odd, however, Harry, I must emphasize that this is a very important matter, and your response, no matter what it may be, will not be taken lightly.”

“Of course, yes, what is it?”

“Do you understand that, Harry?”

“Yes, Professor, I understand,” he exhaled, exasperated.

“Good,” Dumbledore nodded. “Now, tell me, what is your name?”

What? Dumbledore wanted to know the boy’s name; how was this the all-important question he had warned Harry to take seriously? The answer was obvious: the old man had been calling him “Harry” throughout this whole conversation, so of course that would be his response— whether or not he believed it himself was another issue, an issue to be dealt with later, when Dumbledore wasn’t around to snoop.

“My name, Professor,” the boy said haughtily, “is Tom— Tomornia, the nurse, she called me Harry, yes. And so did you.”

Tom; he had called himself Tom. He had intended to say Harry. That was what he wanted to say, to keep the old man from suspecting anything, yet he’d said Tom anyway. The old wizard eyed him with his annoyingly sparkly eyes, and he felt as though his face was being searched for any fleck of doubt.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said after a short while. “Well, I really must be going, Harry.” He grabbed the boy’s now-empty glass and walked out of the small room.

“Professor!” He called out, but the old man was already gone.

Why did he leave so quickly? He never even answered Harry’s question, which, in his opinion, was far more important than that foolish question Dumbledore had asked. What was that cracked old man up to, and why had Harry struggled to say the name he so clearly intended himself to say? It was all so infuriating.

But Harry had no more time to think about it as he was growing tired. He began to lay his head on the soft pillow and stared at the nightstand, and on it sat the silver tray, which was still there with glistening water that had leaked from the glass.

Chapter Text

It was rather warm and stuffy that evening at Number Four Privet Drive. It had rained just that morning and had only stopped an hour ago, an hour which had passed by rather quickly. Harry, of course, took no notice of the time as he was staring out of his bedroom window, onto the street below. He watched as very few things happened: one car, a red car which belonged to the Dursleys’ across-the-street neighbour, had pulled out of the drive and returned a few moments later with one less passenger. Another vehicle had pulled into the drive — presumably from work — while another made an irritating screech as it turned far too sharply on the road.

Harry’s eyes wandered to the sky, where grey clouds stood, almost immobile, with small bits of the sky peeking through. He had been hoping for any bit of news or information since he had woken up in St. Mungo’s nearly a month ago. However, there was nothing. No owls or flying cars. He assumed the lack of letters was due to Dumbledore’s intervention — that meddling fool.

When he had woken up for the second time, after Dumbledore’s rather short visit to St. Mungo’s, Harry found, at the foot of his bed, a neatly folded pile of Muggle attire upon which sat a note. The note said,

Dear Mr. Potter,

You have been deemed healthy and fit to leave St. Mungo’s by me and the wonderful staff here. Kindly exchange your gown for the clothes provided and gather any other belongings you may have. After doing so, please make your way to the front desk to check yourself out (your care has already been paid for).

We hope you enjoyed your stay,

Ms. Tomornia

P.S. Professor Dumbledore has provided you with a single-use Portkey to your home, which will be given to you at the front desk.

P.P.S. Professor Dumbledore has also requested we tell you that you are not allowed to leave your house or send any owls. He will contact you directly come August.

Harry had followed Dumbledore’s request rather unwillingly as Hedwig, the boy’s owl, had been nowhere to be seen. It was nice, not having to hear her squawking every night, begging to be let out of her cage because his stupid Uncle Vernon couldn’t handle him having a single ounce of freedom. But with her gone, his lifeline to the wizarding world, to his friends, and henceforth to any whisper of information about Voldemort, was gone. Just cut off. All he could do was sit and wait till Dumbledore decided to contact him.

“Potter!” Came the grating voice of Aunt Petunia.

Harry exhaled and moseyed out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen, where his gaunt-looking aunt stood with her arms crossed, giving the boy a sour expression.

“It’s not that long a walk down the stairs— clean the table,” she said pointedly, “and wash the dishes while you’re down here.”

Harry looked over at the dining table and saw that they had eaten Spaghetti for dinner, which in of itself wasn’t bad; however, the disgusting thing was that Dudley still had yet to learn how to properly eat, despite being 16. Harry could tell this plainly by all the strands of spaghetti which lay strewn about one side of the table. It looked as if a pig had taken Dudley’s place, or that’s what he would have guessed if Dudley wasn’t a pig already. He glanced over to where his cousin sat in the lounge, eyes glued to the TV. He had orange sauce still around his mouth, looking as if he had stuffed his face into the spaghetti and eaten it like the animal he was.

“Disgusting…” Harry hissed as he began clearing the table. This was a job that should be reserved for only the worst of society. For those of no class, no standing, no magic. Cleaning up pigsties was a job that no self-respecting wizard should ever be subjected to, and should rather be delegated to those ugly, meaningless Muggles. The likes of which were sitting in the very next room, ignorantly enjoying their sad little lives. Harry looked into the lounge for a moment—

“Get to work, boy!” Vernon shouted.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry through gritted teeth. The dishes clanked as he dropped them into the sink.

“If you break my china, I will—” Petunia took a sharp intake of breath. “You ought to be careful with what isn’t yours; those are far more expensive than you.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Harry turned on the tap and began scrubbing quite vigorously at the china. How dare those lowly creatures speak to him in such a way? How dare those Muggles force the greatest Wizard to ever exist to do a servant’s work? His knuckles became white as he gripped the plate tighter. Did they even know who they were speaking to? Of course not, or else they would be grovelling at his feet this very instant. At that moment, the plate broke and shattered as it landed in the sink.

“DID YOU BREAK MY CHINA?” screeched Petunia. “WHY— Those were very precious, Potter— you don’t know what you’ve just bought yourself.”

Vernon, at that, stormed toward Harry and shoved him into the counter edge, causing him to cry out at the sharp pain in his back.

“Did you not hear your Aunt, boy?? She told you not to break her china, and what did you do?” Vernon poked his finger at Harry’s chest.

“You’d be better sold for more china than anything else!” cried Petunia.

“You will not speak to me that way, you filthy rats!” Harry spat.

He was so furious that he hardly noticed as a vase flew across the room and smashed into the side of the great oaf’s head, causing him to stumble to the ground and Petunia to run by his side.

“Stupid boy, you’re not allowed to do magic outside of school!” Vernon groaned.

Harry’s voice grew cold, “They don’t have to know anything, Dursley.”

“Oh god” — gasped Petunia — “Vernon, dear, you’re bleeding.”

Harry stared on as his aunt went to grab her medical kit.

“All you magic kind are the same: violent and unfit for normal society,” he growled, holding his hands to his wound.

“You are calling me unfit for society? You, a worthless, insignificant Muggle!” Harry couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “You are at the bottom of the food chain, and trust me when I say that if there were nothing blocking me from cursing you right now, I wouldn’t hesitate. The number of times you’ve beaten me, yelled at me, or locked me away… You’d think I’d of done it sooner? Hear me now, when I come back here, I shall bring upon you a hell far worse than that which you have wrought me.”

And at that, Harry stomped back upstairs, passing Petunia on her way to the kitchen. He stopped at the last step, letting his breathing calm down, when he heard a bustle come from his room. Had he left the window open? He crept in front of the door frame and saw, with the light of the street lamps, the silhouette of a boy. He was rustling through all of Harry’s belongings. Harry slid inside and shut the door behind himself.

The figure jumped, “Harry! I er- I swear I wasn’t doing anything.”

Harry flicked the switch and saw, looking quite as pale as a vampire, Dudley. And he was holding Harry’s wand.

“Is that my wand? Dudley, give me back my wand.”

“I can’t do that, Harry.”

“Why not?” He scoffed.

“You- you,” his voice was quavering. “You threatened to- to curse us! I don’t want to be cursed!”

Harry stared at Dudley, then sighed, “Listen, I only lost my temper. I was saying things that I didn’t truly mean, I swear.” He held out his hand. “Now, could you please give me my wand?”

“Harry, you’ve changed.”

“What?” he snarled.

“I just mean— Harry, d’you remember when you saved my life? In that tunnel last year? That day, I didn’t know if you were goin’ to leave me. I really thought I was goin’ to die, and d’you want to know what I was thinkin’ in that moment?” Dudley paused as if waiting for a response. “I was thinkin’ about how much of an arse I’ve been- to you, about how much my’ve parents been arses to you… Harry, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

Dudley began crying, looking Harry right in the eyes. He was sorry? He recalled the events of the past half hour. Harry had thought and said some nasty things about Dudley… and about the Dursleys and Muggles as a whole. Where had that come from? Harry Potter never thought of Muggles as “lesser-than”. Harry Potter always considered Muggles the same as Wizards and Witches. But Tom Riddle considered the sappy little Muggle in front of him to be quite pathetic. Vying for pity with a sob story? And yet, curiously, it seemed to be working. His eyes began watering, and soon enough, he too was crying.

“Oh, god… I’m so sorry, Dudley. I- I must have gone mad or something,” Harry uttered.

“Maybe we could start over?” Dudley asked, handing over Harry’s wand.

“…Perhaps we can.”

Chapter Text

Not long had passed since Harry’s outburst at Vernon merely four days ago, and it quite showed in the Dursleys’ attitude whenever Harry found himself wanting to go downstairs, as he did on this day.

When he passed into the kitchen, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, Petunia glaring at him with a most unfortunate expression. He supposed he was glad not to be pestered by her—or Vernon, for that matter—to do any housework. However, her glare, which seemed to be getting stronger, as if she was standing just behind him, gave him a sense of unease.

Harry picked an apple from the fruit bowl, which sat just left of the sink, and turned round to the lounge where Petunia, Vernon, and—Harry just noticed, though was not surprised to see—Dudley, whose eyes were fixated on the TV. Petunia tore her eyes from Harry and gazed down at her magazine. He presumed it was one of her clothing catalogues, within which were choices of much too high a price than what the Dursleys could afford. Vernon was sitting in his usual armchair, reading the paper, and grunting every so often when he read something that didn’t suit his liking. Dudley had taken notice of Harry by this point and waved a large hand at him. Harry only smiled weakly and moved out of sight and out onto the drive.

Harry walked along the sidewalk, letting the evening breeze brush his hair to the side, revealing a nasty, lightning-bolt-shaped scar just above his right eye. He remembered that scar. He remembered the night he received it. The memory was like a flash, an instant of pain and misery which, to this very day, still affected him. His parents had died that same night. They both died protecting him; his mother had begged for his life to be spared. He remembered her scream quite well, though it had only lasted for mere seconds as she had died of the Killing Curse, which gives its victim the fate of an instant death.

He remembered walking past the poor woman’s corpse and peering into a crib to see what she had died to protect: a baby. What a pitiful sight it was, screaming like a banshee for its late mother. He raised his wand to its head and uttered the curse that should have ended its life. But it did not. Instead, he was destroyed by the curse; instead, he, whose name wizards far and wide feared even to speak, was defeated by nothing but a mere baby and its mother’s love.

Harry stopped walking and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were experiencing a headache—though he was not—and let out a breath which he had not realised he was holding in till just then. There was an awful silence in his mind; a silence which allowed for no thoughts of any kind.

Here he stood for quite some time until he heard a voice calling out. He ignored it, as he was sure it had nothing to do with him in his silence. It called again, more clearly this time, and he found that it was calling his name. Harry looked behind him and saw who the voice belonged to; it was his cousin, Dudley, and he was jogging toward him at a surprisingly fast pace.

He exhaled then said, “There you are, Harry, what are you doin’ out here?”

“I’m just thinking, is all. But never mind that, why have you come out here?”

“Well, it’s gettin’ really dark and I thought I might just come and, you know, check on you.”

Harry looked up and saw that the sky had changed from the purple of dusk to the black of the night. “Yeah, I suppose time must have slipped away from me.”

“You looked real’ caught up on something there,” Dudley said as they began walking. “What er, what were you thinkin’ about?”

“Oh, uhm, just my parents.”

“D’you… miss them?”

“Yeah, of course I do. But, I mean, it’s not like I can bring them back or anything.”

“I guess there’s no magic for that, is there?”

Harry only sighed and shook his head. No magic could rule over death, no matter how powerful, he supposed. And they spoke no more words to each other for the rest of the walk back.

Chapter Text

Harry was sure he saw the street lamp flicker. Dudley nudged him and pointed to another one, which had also flickered and gone out —like a fly whizzing away. Rather odd.

Perhaps it was just the electricity, but then again, it wasn’t storming at all. It was a generally good night with weather that was not indicative of a power outage.

Harry shrugged.

Unless… was it magic? Harry stopped walking and squinted.

There, just ahead of them, another lamp flickered out, and he saw that the light zoomed toward a figure of a man in long, flowing robes. He inhaled quite sharply, realising who it was.

“Dumbledore…?” he whispered.

At that moment, the old Wizard took out the last of the street lamps, making him practically invisible against the dark backdrop of Privet Drive, and walked towards —Harry only assumed— the Dursleys’ house.

He needed to get to the door before Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore would “contact him directly”, but coming to the Dursleys’? And at such a time of night, when they would most assuredly be in the middle of their nightly routines, Petunia would be doing her nightly kitchen-cleaning, and Vernon would be watching the TV. They would be very peeved at Harry.

He began moving again at a faster pace than he had been going before, and then slowed down to a stroll. What was he doing? He did not care for the opinions of simple Muggles.

He saw Dumbledore knock and begin speaking —presumably— to the Dursleys at the door.

“Who is that?” Dudley mumbled rather loudly, which caused Aunt Petunia to poke her head out and spot them; Dumbledore only smiled.

“May we be let inside?” He gestured to himself, Harry and Dudley. “It is crucial, I should tell you, and these boys might well be very cold after being out tonight.”

Petunia nor Vernon —who Harry now saw was also standing at the door— gave a response. But upon seeing Dudley, she held out her hands to him, and he delightedly moved toward her. Vernon seemed to be sizing up Dumbledore while the Wizard seemed perfectly uninterested in his gaze.

Vernon grimaced and began to say something about how he wasn’t going to let the Wizard in until he was cut off by said Wizard walking in and saying, “I very much appreciate it; oh, what a nice house you have!”

Harry walked in immediately after Dumbledore and shut the door.

“Professor?” He said.

Dumbledore swivelled around, “Ah, Harry, I’m glad you appeared when you did. We have a very important engagement tonight.”

“Do we.”

“Yes, however, I am afraid, I must admit, that something rather more important did prevent me from coming here to gather you sooner. For that I must apologise, but now, Harry, if you might pack your trunk-”

“Good riddance, I’ll say,” Vernon interjected.

Dumbledore continued as if he had not been interrupted, which made Harry’s uncle grow rather red in the face, “-for Hogwarts; I should let you know you will not be coming back home this summer.”

Harry nodded, then jogged up to his room and began packing. He threw his clothes and books in, not caring much for elegance, as it seemed he had no time to. Without thinking, he tossed the uneaten apple into the trunk. He double-checked his desk drawers for anything he may have missed, then shut the lid of the trunk and locked the clasps.

When he returned downstairs, he expected to see Dumbledore waiting patiently in the front hall, but alas, he was not there. Then a noise came from the lounge, which sounded very much like glass clinking against some thick material, followed by a shattering sound and a gasp.

Harry peeked in and saw the aftermath of what was presumably one of Petunia’s wine glasses landing and breaking on the floor; Petunia held her hand to her chest, making a very offended expression at the mess. Dumbledore waved his wand, and in a moment the glass was fixed and resting on the side table.

“Have you packed all your things, Harry?”

“Yes, er-”

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said, then turned back to the Dursleys. “Well, we must be going then. Thank you for the wine, miss.”

And at that, he ushered Harry and his trunk outside.