Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Return to Reality
In The Hour
3 reviews(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...
5Exciting
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Chapter Two: In The Hour
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...11:00 PM, 30th July 1997...
He smelt flowers; intense, wild, sexy.
Satin sheets felt like honey on their skin. Bella giggled low, her heavy eyes dancing, dark hair swinging about her face. Slowly - sickeningly slowly - she leaned forward against his chest, brushing her lips roughly past his.
He pulled her closer ... their breath mingled ... panting ... bodies stretched ... arced ... legs parted...
Forbidden. Hot. Ecstasy.
Harry's eyes snapped open, terrified and revolted by the vision. His itchy blue shirt was twisted about his torso, pressing hard on his lungs. Harry blinked at the ceiling of his cell, his heart beating hard and fast. He dare not move, resettle himself more comfortably. He had not just been dreaming ... surely.
"Bad dream?" Kingsley asked, watching the youth with his now customary frown.
Harry did not reply, shutting his eyes tight and feeling nauseous like never before. Bellatrix Lestange. His gut twisted, fighting the mental imagery. He wanted to vomit.
Sometime during the silent hours following Edwina Murphy's visit, Kingsley had dimmed the lights and Harry, while desperate to find a plan of escape, had unconsciously drifted off. Troubled emotions can never give in to peaceful dreams.
"Are you feeling alright, Potter?"
Kingsley had gotten off his chair, drawing nearer to the bed centred room. His boots squeaked on the dirty floor with each stilted step, closer and closer but never quite close enough, his shadow rising about the tiled walls ominously.
Harry groaned, tightening his shoulders, as a previous thought came to mind.
He had to get to Shacklebolt. He had to get his wand.
Kingsley paused, two feet too far, and surveying his charge through narrowed eyes.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry mumbled, rolling so that his face was turned away from the Auror.
Kingsley took another step closer, retaining a comfortable distance apart from the prisoner, careful not to come any nearer than was absolutely necessary. "Would you like a bucket?" Kingsley asked, his voice completely even, giving nothing of his thoughts away.
An arms length closer and Harry would have it.
Love.
Oh, to the power of love. The willingness to believe the best in anybody and everybody. Voldemort's ultimate undoing and the Light's greatest weakness. Compassion. Generosity.
"Hmm," Harry sucked in a gulp of air and wrenched, heaving his lungs dry.
And there was Shacklebolt, just as Harry had predicted he would act, with a bucket in his hand, holding Harry's head to best aid him. Harry almost felt sorry to be tricking him so, imposter or not. Almost, that is.
He could see the wand now, protruding ever so slightly from Shacklebolts' robes. The shiny dark wood glistened, beckoning to him, tempting and taunting.
Just a breath away ...
And, without thinking about it, without even realising what he was doing, Harry's right arm had darted out, snatching the wand between long, thin fingers.
"Impedimenta," he hissed.
...11:15 PM...
James sat on the front porch of his home, cigarette in one hand, a half empty bottle of firewhisky in the other. The Order was gathering inside, gradually flooing in from all over Europe. It was unusual to hold a meeting at Godrics Hollow, but Dumbledore had called them there, and who was he to rebuke the decision. The father of a murderer.
James took another drag, the exhaled smoke obscuring the little area of which he could see around him in the pitch black night. There was no moon, no stars shining down on the earth. He leant against the wooden railing, closing his mind to the muffled noises inside. It was the perfect time to be depressed, to wallow in ones own self-pity and misfortunes. It was not like any could begrudge him the solitude.
A high pitched laugh carried out from the living room, cutting through the warm summer air, and James curled his hand into a fist, jagged nails digging through his palm.
More than anything in life, he could not stand the condolences of these 'acquaintance' sometime 'friends'.
The pity. The hit on his fierce pride.
He could not stand to go back into the house, where Lily would be busying herself serving refreshments, the life of the party - still, after two long years, in denial of their sons betrayal. Where Sirius would be moping around in the study, his face buried between his hands, and Remus feebly greeting the guests as they arrived, courteous as always, better at dealing with the situation than anyone. And Peter, yet to turn up at all, notoriously tardy. The most timid and unreliable of all the Marauder's, he had never taken much of a liking to Harry, for most reasons unknown to the rest of the group. But, he would be there eventually, of course.
Everyone would.
The polite smiles. They did not care.
"We'd never have thought..." They did not mean it.
"At least..." They were happy he had been caught.
Azkaban. James shuddered. He had visited the prison just once, during his training period to become an Auror, and would honestly not wish the place on anyone. Least of all Harry. Although, James sniggered, the island might just improve Snivellus. A little.
He tried to smile at his joke, but could only force his lips into a twisted sort of grimace, and so took another swig of the cool, tangy liquid. His head flew with the breeze, free from all restraints. No boundaries. No place his thoughts would refuse to wonder - the genius of alcohol.
It had been two years since James had last seen Harry. Two years of wondering. The heartache. The confusion. The longing. If he could only see Harry again, before he was shipped off to Azkaban indefinitely. Just the one last time. If only he could ask him, 'Why?'
Of all things, despite whatever else he may have been dealing with at the time.
Why the bloody hell had it come to this.
What could possibly have driven Harry so far out of reach, that he thought there was no other way. No other options. That it wouldn't settle down, it shouldn't be sorted out. That he couldn't talk to his own father, when they had once been so close ...
That he would join the Darkness, despite the very bearings of which he had been surrounded with since birth.
Despite the unfulfilled Prophecy they had told him in his third year at Hogwarts, though the applicant unknown. The prophecy Voldemort had heard too, but not acted upon. Perhaps the self-proclaimed 'Lord' had done the right thing by everyone, and James frowned, thinking of what would have happened if Voldemort had gone after them ... had tried to kill Harry ... Would they all be dead, gone forever like the entire Longbottom family was now? And would that be a better option, than living with Harry as a Death Eater, as Voldemort's right hand?
But it might have been Harry ... he might have been the one to end it all. It might have been so very different.
"James?"
He jumped, surprised, and quickly killed the cigarette.
"Lily."
Again, he tried to smile and failed. He needn't have bothered, really. "What is it?"
She looked drained. Haggard. "Dumbledore's just arrived. We're all waiting for you." She ran a hand through her hair - cut much like it had been in their fifth year at school, the way Harry always said he liked it best - pushing the red locks back from her face. Dull hazel eyes met dull emerald, and they understood each other in silent interaction.
He nodded, but did not move, and she paused, waiting at the old front door.
"Be brave, James." It was no more than a whisper. "Be brave for Harry."
He nodded again, standing on shaky feet. Anything for Harry. Even facing a room full of the Order of the Phoenix members, all keen to study James Potter under the strictest gaze, the one whom had been stupid enough to trust Harry with everything. Like he didn't know his own child ...
He met her on the door step, wrapping an arm around her waist in support, when the loud crack of an apparation sounded behind them.
They both turned, startled, to see a dark figure hurrying up the garden path. Kingsley Shacklebolt jogged towards them, black robes billowing in a decidedly Snape-like fashion, out of breath and carrying on hurriedly towards the house.
James grabbed Lily's hand, leading her forward towards the other Auror.
"Kingsley, what's the matter? Aren't you supposed to be guarding," he paused, skipping his sons name, but Kingsley had caught on, taking the porch steps three at a time.
Now at closer quarters the couple could see his blood mattered head.
James bit the inside of his cheek, coppery blood running between his teeth. It could only mean -
"He's escaped. Harry's gone."
...11:35 PM...
It had been easy to get out of the ministry, once he'd rid himself of the damned handcuff. The second lot of guards standing outside the bend of cell corridors had been half asleep, counting down the minutes until midnight when their shifts would be over. Once they had been stunned, it was only a matter of getting to the apparation pad, of which Harry accomplished in minutes.
And by eleven thirty Harry was standing outside of 'The Burrow', hiding behind a tree in the small garden, staring fondly up at the familiar house, all reassurances that Ron would be able to help him in mind.
Something dreadful had happened, Harry was sure, but Ron would be there for him. He always was. Harry wasn't a murderer, and Ron knew that. He'd help him.
Stepping out from the cover of the tree, Harry was careful to keep to the garden path, slowly making his way up to the jumble of Wellington boots and rusted cauldrons that marked the Weasley's front door. He wondered for a moment about the lateness of his visit, and suddenly felt quite embarrassed to be wearing what he wore. He wished he had thought to nick a pair of robes from one of the guards.
The windows, piling on up along the stories of the house, were completely black, all lights long turned out.
With a little more hesitation, Harry knocked hard on the door.
He crossed his arms, hugging his elbows, until at last he heard the sound of descending footsteps draw nearer. Harry held his breath, waiting impatiently to be let inside. He needed reassurance. Calm. Explanations. And dear Merlin, he could really use some of Mrs Weasleys' cooking.
A thump, a yawn, and the Weasley member stopped inside of the doorway, scratching his head.
"Mum, Dad? Are you back already?"
"No," Harry smiled, recognising the voice as Charlie's. Of course, he'd be there for Bill's wedding. "It's me, Harry."
"Harry?"
The scratching stopped. And with a slight tremble in his voice, Charlie added, "Harry who?"
"Harry Potter. Sorry to wake you and all, but ..." Harry stopped, frowning. Inside he heard Charlie take a step back, and he knew instantly that something was wrong. Wrong, just like it was everywhere else. "Charlie? That's you, right?"
"Bill!"
Banging, clanging, more alarmed thumping.
Lights were turning on.
People were waking up.
A faint voice called from high up the stairs, "What?"
Charlie was leaving, getting further away from him. "It's Harry-Bloody-Potter!"
A scream of fright answered and chaos pursued. Voices, high and frightened. Doors opened and slammed shut, footsteps hurrying in all directions.
Harry turned and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and just as he stepped far enough away from the house, he apparated to the first place he could think of.
...11:45 PM...
Number four Privet Drive was in ruins, looking very much like it had been unoccupied for the past twenty years. The garden beds were full of weeds, the long unmowed grass a pale yellow colour. Dead, abandoned. The front door hung limp on its hinge, all windows on the first floor shattered, glass thrown everywhere. To say the house was a bloody mess, a beacon on inconsistency on the tidy little street, would be a large understatement.
And there, planted directly next to the letterbox, was the telltale post of a real estate agent, hammered into the ground that very day, reading in broad black letters 'For Sale'.
Harry was completely numb.
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
He was was choking on the thick uncertainty, the rich power residue emanating about the broken house.
Had he not been here, slept here, just two nights ago? And the Dursleys' ...
They were dead. Harry did not need any evidence, of this he just knew. He was sure. It was in the air, engulfing the house, possessing the whole neighbourhood. Murder. They had been murdered.
For the second time that hour Harry was overwhelmed with nauseousness, and all he could think of was the nightmare a day earlier in which he had murdered his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. The same nightmare that had him trapped in his cell in the first place, so the Daily Prophet had claimed.
Shaking himself away from these thoughts, Harry stumbled up the front path, the dry grass crunching beneath his bare feet, prickling into his heels, and he slowly slid the front door aside to enter into the house, pulling it shut behind him.
The house reeked of death, of pain.
Of lives stolen.
Harry continued on in silence, down the hallway and into the kitchen. He released a breath he did not know he held, seeing no mangled bodies as he'd half expected. But then, he realised, the real estate agent had probably tidied the place up a little. After the morgue, of course. He went further in, giving the dining room a wide berth, and paused in front of the television set in the kitchen, staring down at an empty beer can.
...12:00 AM, 31st July, Harry's seventeenth year...
Another year, another birthday.
Alone. Confused. Panicked.
The world thought him a murderer. He was not welcome at the Weasleys'. Shacklebolt had said his parents were alive, but by all appearances the Dursley's were not. The ministry was on his tail, set to throw him in Azkaban as soon as they could, and they would only be getting closer to his whereabouts.
Harry's life had turned upside-down.
All in all, Harry thought, this would not be his best birthday by far.
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"Redemption ri'dem(p)sh(e)n noun 1. The act of redeeming or the fact of being redeemed. 2. Something that redeems, esp something that redeems somebody from sin or makes up for past offences."
'The New Penguin English Dictionary', pg 1171.
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Chapter Two: In The Hour
... ... ... ...
...11:00 PM, 30th July 1997...
He smelt flowers; intense, wild, sexy.
Satin sheets felt like honey on their skin. Bella giggled low, her heavy eyes dancing, dark hair swinging about her face. Slowly - sickeningly slowly - she leaned forward against his chest, brushing her lips roughly past his.
He pulled her closer ... their breath mingled ... panting ... bodies stretched ... arced ... legs parted...
Forbidden. Hot. Ecstasy.
Harry's eyes snapped open, terrified and revolted by the vision. His itchy blue shirt was twisted about his torso, pressing hard on his lungs. Harry blinked at the ceiling of his cell, his heart beating hard and fast. He dare not move, resettle himself more comfortably. He had not just been dreaming ... surely.
"Bad dream?" Kingsley asked, watching the youth with his now customary frown.
Harry did not reply, shutting his eyes tight and feeling nauseous like never before. Bellatrix Lestange. His gut twisted, fighting the mental imagery. He wanted to vomit.
Sometime during the silent hours following Edwina Murphy's visit, Kingsley had dimmed the lights and Harry, while desperate to find a plan of escape, had unconsciously drifted off. Troubled emotions can never give in to peaceful dreams.
"Are you feeling alright, Potter?"
Kingsley had gotten off his chair, drawing nearer to the bed centred room. His boots squeaked on the dirty floor with each stilted step, closer and closer but never quite close enough, his shadow rising about the tiled walls ominously.
Harry groaned, tightening his shoulders, as a previous thought came to mind.
He had to get to Shacklebolt. He had to get his wand.
Kingsley paused, two feet too far, and surveying his charge through narrowed eyes.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry mumbled, rolling so that his face was turned away from the Auror.
Kingsley took another step closer, retaining a comfortable distance apart from the prisoner, careful not to come any nearer than was absolutely necessary. "Would you like a bucket?" Kingsley asked, his voice completely even, giving nothing of his thoughts away.
An arms length closer and Harry would have it.
Love.
Oh, to the power of love. The willingness to believe the best in anybody and everybody. Voldemort's ultimate undoing and the Light's greatest weakness. Compassion. Generosity.
"Hmm," Harry sucked in a gulp of air and wrenched, heaving his lungs dry.
And there was Shacklebolt, just as Harry had predicted he would act, with a bucket in his hand, holding Harry's head to best aid him. Harry almost felt sorry to be tricking him so, imposter or not. Almost, that is.
He could see the wand now, protruding ever so slightly from Shacklebolts' robes. The shiny dark wood glistened, beckoning to him, tempting and taunting.
Just a breath away ...
And, without thinking about it, without even realising what he was doing, Harry's right arm had darted out, snatching the wand between long, thin fingers.
"Impedimenta," he hissed.
...11:15 PM...
James sat on the front porch of his home, cigarette in one hand, a half empty bottle of firewhisky in the other. The Order was gathering inside, gradually flooing in from all over Europe. It was unusual to hold a meeting at Godrics Hollow, but Dumbledore had called them there, and who was he to rebuke the decision. The father of a murderer.
James took another drag, the exhaled smoke obscuring the little area of which he could see around him in the pitch black night. There was no moon, no stars shining down on the earth. He leant against the wooden railing, closing his mind to the muffled noises inside. It was the perfect time to be depressed, to wallow in ones own self-pity and misfortunes. It was not like any could begrudge him the solitude.
A high pitched laugh carried out from the living room, cutting through the warm summer air, and James curled his hand into a fist, jagged nails digging through his palm.
More than anything in life, he could not stand the condolences of these 'acquaintance' sometime 'friends'.
The pity. The hit on his fierce pride.
He could not stand to go back into the house, where Lily would be busying herself serving refreshments, the life of the party - still, after two long years, in denial of their sons betrayal. Where Sirius would be moping around in the study, his face buried between his hands, and Remus feebly greeting the guests as they arrived, courteous as always, better at dealing with the situation than anyone. And Peter, yet to turn up at all, notoriously tardy. The most timid and unreliable of all the Marauder's, he had never taken much of a liking to Harry, for most reasons unknown to the rest of the group. But, he would be there eventually, of course.
Everyone would.
The polite smiles. They did not care.
"We'd never have thought..." They did not mean it.
"At least..." They were happy he had been caught.
Azkaban. James shuddered. He had visited the prison just once, during his training period to become an Auror, and would honestly not wish the place on anyone. Least of all Harry. Although, James sniggered, the island might just improve Snivellus. A little.
He tried to smile at his joke, but could only force his lips into a twisted sort of grimace, and so took another swig of the cool, tangy liquid. His head flew with the breeze, free from all restraints. No boundaries. No place his thoughts would refuse to wonder - the genius of alcohol.
It had been two years since James had last seen Harry. Two years of wondering. The heartache. The confusion. The longing. If he could only see Harry again, before he was shipped off to Azkaban indefinitely. Just the one last time. If only he could ask him, 'Why?'
Of all things, despite whatever else he may have been dealing with at the time.
Why the bloody hell had it come to this.
What could possibly have driven Harry so far out of reach, that he thought there was no other way. No other options. That it wouldn't settle down, it shouldn't be sorted out. That he couldn't talk to his own father, when they had once been so close ...
That he would join the Darkness, despite the very bearings of which he had been surrounded with since birth.
Despite the unfulfilled Prophecy they had told him in his third year at Hogwarts, though the applicant unknown. The prophecy Voldemort had heard too, but not acted upon. Perhaps the self-proclaimed 'Lord' had done the right thing by everyone, and James frowned, thinking of what would have happened if Voldemort had gone after them ... had tried to kill Harry ... Would they all be dead, gone forever like the entire Longbottom family was now? And would that be a better option, than living with Harry as a Death Eater, as Voldemort's right hand?
But it might have been Harry ... he might have been the one to end it all. It might have been so very different.
"James?"
He jumped, surprised, and quickly killed the cigarette.
"Lily."
Again, he tried to smile and failed. He needn't have bothered, really. "What is it?"
She looked drained. Haggard. "Dumbledore's just arrived. We're all waiting for you." She ran a hand through her hair - cut much like it had been in their fifth year at school, the way Harry always said he liked it best - pushing the red locks back from her face. Dull hazel eyes met dull emerald, and they understood each other in silent interaction.
He nodded, but did not move, and she paused, waiting at the old front door.
"Be brave, James." It was no more than a whisper. "Be brave for Harry."
He nodded again, standing on shaky feet. Anything for Harry. Even facing a room full of the Order of the Phoenix members, all keen to study James Potter under the strictest gaze, the one whom had been stupid enough to trust Harry with everything. Like he didn't know his own child ...
He met her on the door step, wrapping an arm around her waist in support, when the loud crack of an apparation sounded behind them.
They both turned, startled, to see a dark figure hurrying up the garden path. Kingsley Shacklebolt jogged towards them, black robes billowing in a decidedly Snape-like fashion, out of breath and carrying on hurriedly towards the house.
James grabbed Lily's hand, leading her forward towards the other Auror.
"Kingsley, what's the matter? Aren't you supposed to be guarding," he paused, skipping his sons name, but Kingsley had caught on, taking the porch steps three at a time.
Now at closer quarters the couple could see his blood mattered head.
James bit the inside of his cheek, coppery blood running between his teeth. It could only mean -
"He's escaped. Harry's gone."
...11:35 PM...
It had been easy to get out of the ministry, once he'd rid himself of the damned handcuff. The second lot of guards standing outside the bend of cell corridors had been half asleep, counting down the minutes until midnight when their shifts would be over. Once they had been stunned, it was only a matter of getting to the apparation pad, of which Harry accomplished in minutes.
And by eleven thirty Harry was standing outside of 'The Burrow', hiding behind a tree in the small garden, staring fondly up at the familiar house, all reassurances that Ron would be able to help him in mind.
Something dreadful had happened, Harry was sure, but Ron would be there for him. He always was. Harry wasn't a murderer, and Ron knew that. He'd help him.
Stepping out from the cover of the tree, Harry was careful to keep to the garden path, slowly making his way up to the jumble of Wellington boots and rusted cauldrons that marked the Weasley's front door. He wondered for a moment about the lateness of his visit, and suddenly felt quite embarrassed to be wearing what he wore. He wished he had thought to nick a pair of robes from one of the guards.
The windows, piling on up along the stories of the house, were completely black, all lights long turned out.
With a little more hesitation, Harry knocked hard on the door.
He crossed his arms, hugging his elbows, until at last he heard the sound of descending footsteps draw nearer. Harry held his breath, waiting impatiently to be let inside. He needed reassurance. Calm. Explanations. And dear Merlin, he could really use some of Mrs Weasleys' cooking.
A thump, a yawn, and the Weasley member stopped inside of the doorway, scratching his head.
"Mum, Dad? Are you back already?"
"No," Harry smiled, recognising the voice as Charlie's. Of course, he'd be there for Bill's wedding. "It's me, Harry."
"Harry?"
The scratching stopped. And with a slight tremble in his voice, Charlie added, "Harry who?"
"Harry Potter. Sorry to wake you and all, but ..." Harry stopped, frowning. Inside he heard Charlie take a step back, and he knew instantly that something was wrong. Wrong, just like it was everywhere else. "Charlie? That's you, right?"
"Bill!"
Banging, clanging, more alarmed thumping.
Lights were turning on.
People were waking up.
A faint voice called from high up the stairs, "What?"
Charlie was leaving, getting further away from him. "It's Harry-Bloody-Potter!"
A scream of fright answered and chaos pursued. Voices, high and frightened. Doors opened and slammed shut, footsteps hurrying in all directions.
Harry turned and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and just as he stepped far enough away from the house, he apparated to the first place he could think of.
...11:45 PM...
Number four Privet Drive was in ruins, looking very much like it had been unoccupied for the past twenty years. The garden beds were full of weeds, the long unmowed grass a pale yellow colour. Dead, abandoned. The front door hung limp on its hinge, all windows on the first floor shattered, glass thrown everywhere. To say the house was a bloody mess, a beacon on inconsistency on the tidy little street, would be a large understatement.
And there, planted directly next to the letterbox, was the telltale post of a real estate agent, hammered into the ground that very day, reading in broad black letters 'For Sale'.
Harry was completely numb.
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
He was was choking on the thick uncertainty, the rich power residue emanating about the broken house.
Had he not been here, slept here, just two nights ago? And the Dursleys' ...
They were dead. Harry did not need any evidence, of this he just knew. He was sure. It was in the air, engulfing the house, possessing the whole neighbourhood. Murder. They had been murdered.
For the second time that hour Harry was overwhelmed with nauseousness, and all he could think of was the nightmare a day earlier in which he had murdered his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. The same nightmare that had him trapped in his cell in the first place, so the Daily Prophet had claimed.
Shaking himself away from these thoughts, Harry stumbled up the front path, the dry grass crunching beneath his bare feet, prickling into his heels, and he slowly slid the front door aside to enter into the house, pulling it shut behind him.
The house reeked of death, of pain.
Of lives stolen.
Harry continued on in silence, down the hallway and into the kitchen. He released a breath he did not know he held, seeing no mangled bodies as he'd half expected. But then, he realised, the real estate agent had probably tidied the place up a little. After the morgue, of course. He went further in, giving the dining room a wide berth, and paused in front of the television set in the kitchen, staring down at an empty beer can.
...12:00 AM, 31st July, Harry's seventeenth year...
Another year, another birthday.
Alone. Confused. Panicked.
The world thought him a murderer. He was not welcome at the Weasleys'. Shacklebolt had said his parents were alive, but by all appearances the Dursley's were not. The ministry was on his tail, set to throw him in Azkaban as soon as they could, and they would only be getting closer to his whereabouts.
Harry's life had turned upside-down.
All in all, Harry thought, this would not be his best birthday by far.
... ... ... ...
"Redemption ri'dem(p)sh(e)n noun 1. The act of redeeming or the fact of being redeemed. 2. Something that redeems, esp something that redeems somebody from sin or makes up for past offences."
'The New Penguin English Dictionary', pg 1171.
... ... ... ...
...pppqqq...
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