Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Return to Reality
Bitter Sweet
1 review(AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilt...
3Exciting
... ... ... ...
Chapter One: Bitter Sweet
... ... ... ...
It is often said that the first five years of ones life shape the person they are to become. Abused, neglected and unloved, the Harry Potter of canon became the perfect Gryffindor. Brave, daring, Dumbledore's man through and through.
So what if Harry hadn't grown up with the Dursley's? What if he had been supported, doted upon and beloved? Could we presume to think that the opposite effect would have occurred...
And if Voldemort had heard the whole prophecy ... And he had waited.
Always watching, always lurking.
Waiting, planing, manipulating. Until the chance had come to strike...
... ... ... ...
It wasn't really a great surprise to anyone who knew the Potter's when Harry, Lily and James' only child, was sorted into Slytherin. A house notorious for turning out only the Darkest of Wizards. And it wasn't that Harry was presenting those particularly 'evil' Slytherin qualities. Of course, how could he, with parents as righteous and Gryffindor as his own? It was just that Harry, even as a very young child, had always been a little different.
A little odd. A little devious. A little cunning.
But putting aside all the prejudice against the house, all the wayward views and dodgy friends of their son, Lily and James retained their faith in Harry. Rock solid, never doubted, never wavering. They weren't worried. They knew that Harry would never, ever betray them.
And then came the day when he did.
Or did he?
... ... ... ...
.../ February, 1995. Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts /...
... ... ... ...
Harry sat, slouched over the desk, hitting his quill mindlessly over the blank parchment in front of him.
Tap...
Tap...
Around him other quills scratched away, dutifully recording notes from Professor Binns' monotonous preaching.
Tap...
Harry glared for a moment at the ugly, bushy head in front of him, so intent on ignoring his tapping. Hermione-knows-it-all-but-has-no-friends-Granger. She paused, her eyes unfocused, sensing his gaze on the back of her head. But she didn't turn around. He wondered why ... she couldn't be afraid, could she? Not afraid of /him/?
Tap...
Her cheeks flushed, her gaze turned downward, she shifted uneasily in her seat.
But still she would not confront him.
Tap...
Afraid. Of him. Just like Harry was steadily becoming afraid of himself.
Tap...
Draco, sitting next to Harry, snatched the quill vehemently out of his hand. The blond glared furiously at his friend. Harry only shrugged in reply, slowly taking his quill back. He frowned, examining Malfoy under his lashes, thinking on what could possibly be making him so agitated, so edgy - so unlike his usual uncaring self. He'd been acting weird for days now ... brooding, silent and stony. It was something Draco knew that Harry didn't, Harry was sure, and his friend was being unusually tight-lipped with his information.
Could it be ... was it possible ... that he was /nervous/? That Draco was scared too?
Of course, a lot of people were scared in those times. There was a Dark Lord at large, said to be the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. It was common knowledge that the prestigious Malfoy family was in the thick of the war, rumoured to be elite members of Voldemort's innermost circle of conformance.
Draco looked up suddenly, catching Harry's eye. They stared each other out for a moment, bright green on blue-grey. And Harry wondered, for the first time in five years, why exactly they were friends.
No, Harry shook his head, breaking the contact. Draco would tell him if it was something that concerned Harry. Draco couldn't do that ... he wouldn't sell Harry out, not for anything ... Draco would tell him ... warn him, at the very least ...
Harry returned to his scrutiny of Granger's big, bushy head. He was worried. He pondered what would happen if he wrote to his parents, or Sirius, or Remus, or Peter. Hell, even Dumbledore.
Anyone Harry knew would be only too keen to listen to him tattle away about a Malfoy. None of the incredulous 'Order of the Phoenix' members approved of the friendship, even if their opinions weren't openly voiced - it was painfully obvious. Harry definitely wouldn't put it past any of them to try and extract information from him on the family; secrets, hopes, business, even recruit Harry to spy on them. Everyone was becoming overly suspicious as of late - they knew there was a traitor amongst them. Caution was long ago considered essential in all matters. But while loyalty had never been a particularly strong quality in Slytherin, neither had betrayal. Perhaps Harry could ask Snape ... But no, the teacher was definitely not fond of Harry, and Harry wasn't completely sure of which side the Professor was on.
Harry sighed, abandoning his trail of thought, and began tapping his quill again. He'd think on it later, if Draco kept the act up for another few days.
Slowly Harry's eyes glazed over and he drifted back to his favourite fantasy; the one where he was the heroic Boy-Who-Lived, the saviour of the wizarding world. Darkly handsome, with glasses like his father and a dashing lightning bolt scar across his forehead. Honoured and respected by all. It had been his favourite dream-world since he had created it as a child, one which Harry was constantly expanding upon. It was his escape. A secret, guilty pleasure. He could make anything happen, do whatever he liked to both foes and friends. Of course, Harry hadn't wanted to think of Sirius or his parents dying for the sake of a more intense and dynamic plot to his imagination, but he reasoned, it wasn't for real after all.
Perhaps one day he'd write it into a book ...
Tap...
If only, Harry thought, his life could really be so exciting.
Tap...
... ... ... ...
"Murphy's Law/noun informal/ a facetious principal that states that, if it is possible for something to go wrong or turn out badly, then it will do just that. Also called SOD'S LAW. From the surname Murphy"
The New Penguin English Dictionary, pg 913
... ... ... ...
... /The Ministry of Magic, holding cell no. 9. July 30st, 1997 /...
... ... ... ...
It had probably only been a few hours since he had first awoken, although it seemed like days.
Days, stretching endlessly on to eternity.
After their firsts attempts at failed communication, Shacklebolt had requested that a Healer come see to him. As if he were the crazy one. Harry seethed, gritting his teeth together hard. His molars ground against each other, emitting a satisfying crunch through the prattle of the annoying Healer. He would not say a word in reply. He refused. Not one.
"What's the last thing you remember, dear?"
"Harry, would you object to a truth potion? Veritaserum?"
"Tell me something about yourself ... Kingsley mentioned you thought you wore glasses?"
Edwina Murphy, a chubby witch in her early forties, Chief 'Mind' Healer at St Mungo's Hospital, was grating terribly on his nerves. She had first claimed, upon starting her one-way conversation an hour ago, that she was simply there to help him. But Harry knew better; whatever was going on, he was definitely of the only innocent party involved. Harry began tapping his handcuff on the rail again, a habit he did not know he possessed, tuning out of the endless queries.
The whole position he was in was completely infuriating. He hated to feel helpless. And it had to be from Voldemorts' intervention, for who else could organise such a façade? Harry closed his eyes, possibilities flowing, streaming through his head.
One feeling rose above all else, swamping his mind and refusing to be ignored. Confusion. Nothing was making any bloody sense. It simply was not like Voldemort at all - yes, he could be controlling these people with a potion or a curse, but why the hell would he bother? Voldemorts' prime incentive, since Halloween of 1981, had always been to kill Harry. Murder him, devour him, destroy him; not drive him bonkers, or brainwash him. He was meant to want Harry gone. Dead. On that matter, all had always been clear. Tom Riddle had never been one to beat about the bush before. So what on earth was he doing? What, in Merlin's name, was happening to him?
Another possibility would be that these people - Kingsley and Murphy - really did think he was a Death Eater. Maybe the Daily Prophet actually had published that ridiculous article and others before it that Harry had not read. But then why did Kingsley think his parents were alive? And why would they believe the Daily Prophet opposed to he, Harry?
Nothing made any sense at all. Unless ...
Harry snorted. Only that he was indeed insane. And that thought was anything but comforting.
Murphy, taking Harry's snort as a response to her questioning, rewarded him with her brightest smile. The poor lad, she thought, her Legilimency easily sliding through the empty walls of Harry's mind. He obviously didn't possess a single true memory - what he thought he had lived was simply a dream world floating around his head. Probably one he had concocted from his own imagination, and retreated into when he was taken under a curse. It was a pity, really, that she would not be able to help him.
She stood, sweeping the crinkles from her canary yellow robes, and called Shacklebolt from outside the room. He appeared in a second, a hopeful glint in his eye, and together they stepped into the corridor, leaving the heavy door slightly adjacent.
"He's gone, I'm afraid," she whispered, swinging her sparkly green handbag over a shoulder. "Completely insane. I don't think there should be any need for a trial, really. My advise would be to put him on the first boat to Azkaban. Save his parents a last shred of dignity. They are with the Ministry, aren't they?"
Shacklebolt nodded, his face tight with disappointment.
"Yes, well in that case, it is probably best to keep this as low profile as possible," she continued, dropping her voice another notch. "I've seen far less family truths ruin a career before. Only think of dear Barty! You can count on me not to spread the word, of course."
Kingsley sighed, nodded again, and ignored the gnarling feeling in the pit of his stomach, telling him something was quite off. "Yes, of course. You don't know what caused it, do you? The madness, I mean?"
Murphy frowned, the spitting image of sorrow spread over her features. "I can't see any definite cause, no. Most likely he drove himself into it, dwelling on his own ill doings. He simply couldn't cope with the reality of his crimes ... It's quite common, I assure you."
Shacklebolt gave her a small smile, turning his back to the witch. "Thank you for your time, then."
She placed a hand lightly on his arm, squeezing gently, and he paused. "It was no trouble. No trouble at all. If there's anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask."
Kingsley gave her a final nod, and the door was quickly shut.
Edwina Murphy, away from all prying eyes, let escape a delighted chuckle.
The Dark Lord would be very pleased with her work.
... ... ... ...
Back in his cell, Harry Potter had made a decision.
He had to escape. As soon as possible.
Looking about the dingy room he had first awoken in that morning, Harry looked desperately for some form of escape, any possible opening that he might use to his advantage. But, rather unfortunately, there was only the four solid tiled walls, and the thick, tightly locked door isolating his room from the outside world. Shacklebolt shifted on his feet, glaring at his empty chair where Murphy had been sitting. He seemed restless; his eyes darting everywhere but towards Harry, who lay perfectly still on the lumpy bed.
And it occurred to Harry then, as Kingsley sat down grudgingly in his chair, that while the cell seemed impossible to break - near impenetrable - Shacklebolt was acting considerably unsettled. By what exactly Harry could only guess at, but he would take a fair punt at it involving the 'insanity' of his charge.
The Auror looked up, taking his gaze off of the ground to find Harry staring at him hard, big green eyes unblinking. If anyone in the world knew how to play the guiltless card, it was Harry. After all, how else had he been able to survive so long with the Dursleys?
If he could only get Shacklebolt a little closer ...
Steal his wand ...
Explode the bloody handcuff into a thousand pieces.
It would be a home run from there. And surely Ron and Hermione would be able to explain away this mess ... this nightmare. This fucking monstrosity. It was probably something really stupid, easily explained away, and it would make perfect sense to Harry once he heard it, he would be screaming that he hadn't thought of it before ... laughing his head off, even. They'd all think it was hilarious, he was sure ...
He'd wake up, and it would be over.
He just had to find Ron and Hermione.
...pppqqq...
Chapter One: Bitter Sweet
... ... ... ...
It is often said that the first five years of ones life shape the person they are to become. Abused, neglected and unloved, the Harry Potter of canon became the perfect Gryffindor. Brave, daring, Dumbledore's man through and through.
So what if Harry hadn't grown up with the Dursley's? What if he had been supported, doted upon and beloved? Could we presume to think that the opposite effect would have occurred...
And if Voldemort had heard the whole prophecy ... And he had waited.
Always watching, always lurking.
Waiting, planing, manipulating. Until the chance had come to strike...
... ... ... ...
It wasn't really a great surprise to anyone who knew the Potter's when Harry, Lily and James' only child, was sorted into Slytherin. A house notorious for turning out only the Darkest of Wizards. And it wasn't that Harry was presenting those particularly 'evil' Slytherin qualities. Of course, how could he, with parents as righteous and Gryffindor as his own? It was just that Harry, even as a very young child, had always been a little different.
A little odd. A little devious. A little cunning.
But putting aside all the prejudice against the house, all the wayward views and dodgy friends of their son, Lily and James retained their faith in Harry. Rock solid, never doubted, never wavering. They weren't worried. They knew that Harry would never, ever betray them.
And then came the day when he did.
Or did he?
... ... ... ...
.../ February, 1995. Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts /...
... ... ... ...
Harry sat, slouched over the desk, hitting his quill mindlessly over the blank parchment in front of him.
Tap...
Tap...
Around him other quills scratched away, dutifully recording notes from Professor Binns' monotonous preaching.
Tap...
Harry glared for a moment at the ugly, bushy head in front of him, so intent on ignoring his tapping. Hermione-knows-it-all-but-has-no-friends-Granger. She paused, her eyes unfocused, sensing his gaze on the back of her head. But she didn't turn around. He wondered why ... she couldn't be afraid, could she? Not afraid of /him/?
Tap...
Her cheeks flushed, her gaze turned downward, she shifted uneasily in her seat.
But still she would not confront him.
Tap...
Afraid. Of him. Just like Harry was steadily becoming afraid of himself.
Tap...
Draco, sitting next to Harry, snatched the quill vehemently out of his hand. The blond glared furiously at his friend. Harry only shrugged in reply, slowly taking his quill back. He frowned, examining Malfoy under his lashes, thinking on what could possibly be making him so agitated, so edgy - so unlike his usual uncaring self. He'd been acting weird for days now ... brooding, silent and stony. It was something Draco knew that Harry didn't, Harry was sure, and his friend was being unusually tight-lipped with his information.
Could it be ... was it possible ... that he was /nervous/? That Draco was scared too?
Of course, a lot of people were scared in those times. There was a Dark Lord at large, said to be the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. It was common knowledge that the prestigious Malfoy family was in the thick of the war, rumoured to be elite members of Voldemort's innermost circle of conformance.
Draco looked up suddenly, catching Harry's eye. They stared each other out for a moment, bright green on blue-grey. And Harry wondered, for the first time in five years, why exactly they were friends.
No, Harry shook his head, breaking the contact. Draco would tell him if it was something that concerned Harry. Draco couldn't do that ... he wouldn't sell Harry out, not for anything ... Draco would tell him ... warn him, at the very least ...
Harry returned to his scrutiny of Granger's big, bushy head. He was worried. He pondered what would happen if he wrote to his parents, or Sirius, or Remus, or Peter. Hell, even Dumbledore.
Anyone Harry knew would be only too keen to listen to him tattle away about a Malfoy. None of the incredulous 'Order of the Phoenix' members approved of the friendship, even if their opinions weren't openly voiced - it was painfully obvious. Harry definitely wouldn't put it past any of them to try and extract information from him on the family; secrets, hopes, business, even recruit Harry to spy on them. Everyone was becoming overly suspicious as of late - they knew there was a traitor amongst them. Caution was long ago considered essential in all matters. But while loyalty had never been a particularly strong quality in Slytherin, neither had betrayal. Perhaps Harry could ask Snape ... But no, the teacher was definitely not fond of Harry, and Harry wasn't completely sure of which side the Professor was on.
Harry sighed, abandoning his trail of thought, and began tapping his quill again. He'd think on it later, if Draco kept the act up for another few days.
Slowly Harry's eyes glazed over and he drifted back to his favourite fantasy; the one where he was the heroic Boy-Who-Lived, the saviour of the wizarding world. Darkly handsome, with glasses like his father and a dashing lightning bolt scar across his forehead. Honoured and respected by all. It had been his favourite dream-world since he had created it as a child, one which Harry was constantly expanding upon. It was his escape. A secret, guilty pleasure. He could make anything happen, do whatever he liked to both foes and friends. Of course, Harry hadn't wanted to think of Sirius or his parents dying for the sake of a more intense and dynamic plot to his imagination, but he reasoned, it wasn't for real after all.
Perhaps one day he'd write it into a book ...
Tap...
If only, Harry thought, his life could really be so exciting.
Tap...
... ... ... ...
"Murphy's Law/noun informal/ a facetious principal that states that, if it is possible for something to go wrong or turn out badly, then it will do just that. Also called SOD'S LAW. From the surname Murphy"
The New Penguin English Dictionary, pg 913
... ... ... ...
... /The Ministry of Magic, holding cell no. 9. July 30st, 1997 /...
... ... ... ...
It had probably only been a few hours since he had first awoken, although it seemed like days.
Days, stretching endlessly on to eternity.
After their firsts attempts at failed communication, Shacklebolt had requested that a Healer come see to him. As if he were the crazy one. Harry seethed, gritting his teeth together hard. His molars ground against each other, emitting a satisfying crunch through the prattle of the annoying Healer. He would not say a word in reply. He refused. Not one.
"What's the last thing you remember, dear?"
"Harry, would you object to a truth potion? Veritaserum?"
"Tell me something about yourself ... Kingsley mentioned you thought you wore glasses?"
Edwina Murphy, a chubby witch in her early forties, Chief 'Mind' Healer at St Mungo's Hospital, was grating terribly on his nerves. She had first claimed, upon starting her one-way conversation an hour ago, that she was simply there to help him. But Harry knew better; whatever was going on, he was definitely of the only innocent party involved. Harry began tapping his handcuff on the rail again, a habit he did not know he possessed, tuning out of the endless queries.
The whole position he was in was completely infuriating. He hated to feel helpless. And it had to be from Voldemorts' intervention, for who else could organise such a façade? Harry closed his eyes, possibilities flowing, streaming through his head.
One feeling rose above all else, swamping his mind and refusing to be ignored. Confusion. Nothing was making any bloody sense. It simply was not like Voldemort at all - yes, he could be controlling these people with a potion or a curse, but why the hell would he bother? Voldemorts' prime incentive, since Halloween of 1981, had always been to kill Harry. Murder him, devour him, destroy him; not drive him bonkers, or brainwash him. He was meant to want Harry gone. Dead. On that matter, all had always been clear. Tom Riddle had never been one to beat about the bush before. So what on earth was he doing? What, in Merlin's name, was happening to him?
Another possibility would be that these people - Kingsley and Murphy - really did think he was a Death Eater. Maybe the Daily Prophet actually had published that ridiculous article and others before it that Harry had not read. But then why did Kingsley think his parents were alive? And why would they believe the Daily Prophet opposed to he, Harry?
Nothing made any sense at all. Unless ...
Harry snorted. Only that he was indeed insane. And that thought was anything but comforting.
Murphy, taking Harry's snort as a response to her questioning, rewarded him with her brightest smile. The poor lad, she thought, her Legilimency easily sliding through the empty walls of Harry's mind. He obviously didn't possess a single true memory - what he thought he had lived was simply a dream world floating around his head. Probably one he had concocted from his own imagination, and retreated into when he was taken under a curse. It was a pity, really, that she would not be able to help him.
She stood, sweeping the crinkles from her canary yellow robes, and called Shacklebolt from outside the room. He appeared in a second, a hopeful glint in his eye, and together they stepped into the corridor, leaving the heavy door slightly adjacent.
"He's gone, I'm afraid," she whispered, swinging her sparkly green handbag over a shoulder. "Completely insane. I don't think there should be any need for a trial, really. My advise would be to put him on the first boat to Azkaban. Save his parents a last shred of dignity. They are with the Ministry, aren't they?"
Shacklebolt nodded, his face tight with disappointment.
"Yes, well in that case, it is probably best to keep this as low profile as possible," she continued, dropping her voice another notch. "I've seen far less family truths ruin a career before. Only think of dear Barty! You can count on me not to spread the word, of course."
Kingsley sighed, nodded again, and ignored the gnarling feeling in the pit of his stomach, telling him something was quite off. "Yes, of course. You don't know what caused it, do you? The madness, I mean?"
Murphy frowned, the spitting image of sorrow spread over her features. "I can't see any definite cause, no. Most likely he drove himself into it, dwelling on his own ill doings. He simply couldn't cope with the reality of his crimes ... It's quite common, I assure you."
Shacklebolt gave her a small smile, turning his back to the witch. "Thank you for your time, then."
She placed a hand lightly on his arm, squeezing gently, and he paused. "It was no trouble. No trouble at all. If there's anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask."
Kingsley gave her a final nod, and the door was quickly shut.
Edwina Murphy, away from all prying eyes, let escape a delighted chuckle.
The Dark Lord would be very pleased with her work.
... ... ... ...
Back in his cell, Harry Potter had made a decision.
He had to escape. As soon as possible.
Looking about the dingy room he had first awoken in that morning, Harry looked desperately for some form of escape, any possible opening that he might use to his advantage. But, rather unfortunately, there was only the four solid tiled walls, and the thick, tightly locked door isolating his room from the outside world. Shacklebolt shifted on his feet, glaring at his empty chair where Murphy had been sitting. He seemed restless; his eyes darting everywhere but towards Harry, who lay perfectly still on the lumpy bed.
And it occurred to Harry then, as Kingsley sat down grudgingly in his chair, that while the cell seemed impossible to break - near impenetrable - Shacklebolt was acting considerably unsettled. By what exactly Harry could only guess at, but he would take a fair punt at it involving the 'insanity' of his charge.
The Auror looked up, taking his gaze off of the ground to find Harry staring at him hard, big green eyes unblinking. If anyone in the world knew how to play the guiltless card, it was Harry. After all, how else had he been able to survive so long with the Dursleys?
If he could only get Shacklebolt a little closer ...
Steal his wand ...
Explode the bloody handcuff into a thousand pieces.
It would be a home run from there. And surely Ron and Hermione would be able to explain away this mess ... this nightmare. This fucking monstrosity. It was probably something really stupid, easily explained away, and it would make perfect sense to Harry once he heard it, he would be screaming that he hadn't thought of it before ... laughing his head off, even. They'd all think it was hilarious, he was sure ...
He'd wake up, and it would be over.
He just had to find Ron and Hermione.
...pppqqq...
Sign up to rate and review this story