A Dose Of Reality

A Dose of Reality

Part One: The Nightmare

Harry was looking over at the Slytherin table at dinner that night as he broke the last bread roll to share with Ron. The Great Hall, as usual, was packed to the rafters, the noise of chatting students rising high into the air, their echoes of occasional mirth bouncing off the enchanted ceiling, tonight a darkening December grey. Hogwarts, for once, looked at ease.

Malfoy was there with his cronies Crabbe and Goyle, who were sitting either side of him like menacing bodyguards. Their robes these days had to be specially made to incorporate their large frames, yet the fabric still had to stretch to fit across their broad shoulder blades. The pointy-featured figure of Malfoy himself glanced around the room, and for a second, just a second, his eyes met with Harry's and they widened with a mysterious amusement. Harry could have sworn he saw something flash across them, a knowledgeable, mischievous look that he only wore when he had something up his sleeve. Harry, however, took little notice. He didn't have to these days. The days where he and Ron would have to check over their shoulders in case Malfoy's evil sneering face was about to foil another of their hair raising plans to save humanity, or simply their made-up divination homework, had passed. The events of the past years had reduced Draco to just remaining at his table as he was now, protected by his fellow Slytherins who were far more understanding of a son of a Death Eater than most within the walls of Hogwarts. It could certainly be said that Draco Malfoy could do little within the castle without Dumbledore putting a stop to it. He was on a very short leash.

The bread quickly vanished from their side plates. Tonight's dinner was a true winter warmer: A thick lamb stew stuffed with pearl barley and topped with rich stodgy dumplings that soaked up the gravy like a dream. However popular the dumplings were, vast amounts continued to appear on the tables. And that certainly aided the reasons why Harry felt the need to wipe his plate clean.

'I really needed that one,' said Ron as he dabbed up his gravy with his half of the loaf. 'Herbology this afternoon was a killer! I've only just got the feeling back in my fingers!'

Ron was speaking an ounce of truth. Their progression into greenhouse five for the beginning of their fifth year didn't include the joys of central heating, so Ron, Harry and Hermione were reduced to shivering wrecks every Wednesday afternoon in the pursuit of their dreaded O.W.L.s.

'I thought it was quite interesting...' muttered Hermione, who would walk halfway up Everest to simply up herself a grade. No one took much notice, except for Ron.

'Well, in that case you can do my homework for me.'

He had to dodge the carrot that Hermione promptly threw at him. He simply grinned.

'Come on Hermione, you know I'm only joking.'

Hermione's ice like expression, as always, faded at such a comment and the conversation continued to delve into the daunting tasks that lay in the week ahead, a gruesome double potions lesson in particular. Snape always favoured his own house, the Slytherins, during their weekly torture, and took the greatest delight in showing Harry up in front of Malfoy. It made Harry's skin crawl.

Anyway, the night was still young. After the meal, Harry, Ron and Hermione ascended the stairs to the Gryffindor tower to spend a relaxing evening by the roaring fire. They might have even indulged in a game of exploding snap (still an old favourite) while refusing to eat any food that Fred and George offered them in case it had a rather hideous side-effect. They still hadn't forgotten the Canary creams.

But in fact, Harry decided to call it a night quite early on. Ron was already in bed. He'd complained of a screaming headache after the rare occasion of Hermione beating him at wizard chess. His brothers weren't going to forget that in a hurry. They were still chuckling about it to Lee Jordan as Harry sneaked out of the common room, leaving Hermione asleep by the fire, her bedtime reading forgotten on the floor. Evenings often ended like this in their fifth year at Hogwarts. They had taken the 'No news is good news' approach regarding the return of Voldemort, but Harry was still finding his slumbers disturbed by the occasional throbbing scar. When in doubt, he always remembered what Hagrid had said in a moment of wisdom, the words so reassuring to Harry: 'We'll fight.' So simple, but coming from one of the people Harry liked most in the world, it was as worthy as pure gold. One thing Harry didn't lack was faith.

The boy's dormitory was strangely silent when Harry entered, sighing wearily as he perched on the bed to remove his shoes and socks. The drapes around Ron's bed were already drawn shut: By the sound of peaceful breathing, it was safe to say Ron was asleep. Harry didn't want to disturb him, especially now he wasn't feeling so wonderful himself. His head hurt a little, nothing unusual, but he was a little giddy with it. At least it wasn't a scar pain. It was true that the common room was stuffy. It may have been December and the snow outside the castle showed no sign of budging, but with all the Gryffindors crammed into the circular room, the heat had obviously got to him. He sighed again. Nothing that an early night wouldn't fix.

He quickly changed into his nightclothes and went to wash his face. Maybe some cold water would do the trick. Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he could see his face was pale. Harry wasn't exactly rosy-cheeked to start with, but tonight he was certainly off colour. His scar - that damned line of fleshy tissue that ran down the middle of his forehead that gave him no end of trouble - was standing out glaringly in relief tonight. He normally didn't notice it. After all, he'd lived with this image of his own reflection since he was a one year old. He'd always had a scar, and as much as he wished otherwise, he couldn't recall a day when it didn't adorn his face. It was just one of many things these days that made him more complicated than most.

As for now, he didn't dwell on it. His bed was calling, sleep even more so, and from the instant he left the bathroom until his head hit the pure white pillow, he couldn't think of anything else. For once, he was out like a light.

*

He woke again. It was still dark. Harry could sense the snow falling softly outside, its gentle landing on the ledges of the iron framed window seeming as loud as hail stones against the glass. It roared like thunder. Strange, he thought. Or would have done if his head wasn't in so much of a daze that a thought would have been asking too much.

He stirred a little. By the severe lack of light in the room, Harry figured that everyone else had called it a night. Neville was already snoring - a sound that had previously been annoying but in darker times Harry found strangely reassuring. As long as the snoring continued, things were relatively normal. Yet whatever light there was, it was searing. Harry opened his eyes a little and felt like he was staring into the centre of the sun, the light pouring in and piercing the back of his eyes with pain so severe he gasped. He felt around, found his glasses and put them on, attempting to help the situation. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark quickly enough, but the pain wasn't going away that easily

He was sweating. Harry shifted a little as he attempted - and failed - to sit up, cursing the house-elves for their thoughtful gesture of warming up the sheets. It was unbearable. He took off his glasses again, rubbed his eyes and wearily held the specks in one limp hand as he desperately tried to doze. But it was a fruitless exercise. He didn't even have the energy to sleep - as it was then the shivers started.

It started off as merely a twitch, somewhere in his left side, but the sudden chill that seemed to accompany this went right across his body like a wash. It was as if he was finally being immersed in some cool liquid he hoped vainly would take the pain away. But this was far from. Instead he was forced to take great deep breaths to ease the effects, the air whistling through his teeth as he attempted to suppress the shivers. No such luck. He was flushing hot and cold at the same time, one moment reaching for his duvet and the next simply disregarding it. He was confused, he was tired. And most of all, he felt simply sick.

He groaned a little. By now he could have sworn he'd broken into some sort of fever. One moment shivering, another unable to cope with the thick duvet again. How long he lay awake he couldn't say. It was ridiculous, stupid even - he hadn't been around anybody who was ill, and he certainly never before been ill like this. He felt stupid for even feeling sick. He closed his eyes, wishing it away, wanting more than anything just to go to sleep and let the pain and sickness than had settled not in his stomach, but strangely at the base of his spine, be flushed out of him. He wanted someone to go and get Madam Pomfrey at least, but he barely had the energy to breath, let alone stand up.

'Ron?' he muttered weakly. He could have done with a glass of water, but felt too weak to get it himself. However he spoke out in vain. He got no reply apart from Neville's usual snores; Ron was able to sleep through a hurricane. It just wouldn't do.

He threw his head back against the pillow and sighed shakily, defeated. The infirmary would have to wait for the morning. He opened his eyes again and was greeted with a haze of colour as the fever closed its fist around him. He could almost feel it, waves of hot and cold air grasping at his limbs and pulling his further down. He jerked suddenly as a twinge in his spine suddenly seared the bone. It was too much. As he closed his eyes, the colours remained, gradually swirling into an infinitive pool of black. And finally, finally, he slept.

***

He woke with a start. The room was unusually chilly, he thought, feeling around on his covers for the glasses disregarded the night before. He felt his thin sheets, expecting them to be drenched with sweat but found them dry. He frowned. Thankfully, he felt fine - the severity of the fever must have been sweated and shivered out of him, and although relieved, he still wasn't quite at ease. Instead, he dismissed the unsettled feeling in the base of his spine and put his glasses on, fully prepared to face the world

He pulled back his drapes that surrounded his four poster bed and stepped out to get that much-needed glass of water. Yet again the sight that greeted him seemed ever so slightly odd. He just couldn't put his finger on it. Ron wasn't awake, but all the other beds were long deserted. This was even stranger - Harry had recently been the early riser out of all of them. He simply put it down to a bad night's sleep as he gulped down the water with gusto. It tasted stale. He quickly departed to wash and get dressed, finding his robes of Hogwarts black slung over his trunk as he left them the night before, yet a little more crumpled than he thought they were. Even when he came back from the showers, a little annoyed at the lack of hot water, Ron had not stirred. Harry wandered over to his friend's bed, a little disgruntled.

'Get up you lazy oaf!' he yelled joyfully as he pulled back the drapes. 'You're going to miss...'

'What are you on about, Potter?' said Ron, rising from his slumber. Except it didn't look like Ron. The boy had the same bright red flaming hair and a face of a thousand freckles - undoubtedly a Weasley. But his eyes seemed paler somehow, not twinkling with sarcasm behind his little outburst but sunken in deep, dark rings. They were almost fearful.

'Rough night?' asked Harry, concerned. Ron took little notice.

'What are you doing?' he said, his voice bitter but still a little shaky, uncertain. 'Do you have a death wish or something?'

'Ron, what are you on about? I...'

'Look, don't be so obvious about it. If you start leaping about like that you'll be toast. And don't talk to me, all right?'

Harry was beyond questioning, as was his bafflement. Ron glanced at him, just for a moment, before slipping on his robe and leaving the room. As if he was begging him to understand. As if he would do anything to change the situation. Something wasn't right.

Nevertheless, Harry went down to breakfast after spending 15 minutes flattening his untidy black hair in vain - a regular exercise no matter how fruitless. There was a definite chill in the air as he entered the Great Hall and walked over to the Gryffindor table, Ron looking as disturbed as before while his brothers tried to comfort him.

'Calm down, Ron!' Harry could here George saying in a hoarse whisper. 'It's not a big deal...'

'It IS a big deal!' Ron almost screeched. Fred looked a little unnerved.

'So what if he spoke to you? You're not going to be dragged in just for that?'

'Wanna bet?'

Harry was completely dumbstruck. He didn't know what to make of any of this. He chose not to worsen the situation and was pretty relieved when he saw Neville and Hermione at the other end of the table. Neville was deeply entranced by some ancient text while Hermione was wearing a puzzled look, frowning at her wand and waving it to no avail. He began to wander over as the Weasleys continued their conversation.

'Think of it like this,' Fred was saying. 'We're only here for a few more weeks. It'll be Christmas soon. Mum and Dad may have found a way to - '

'Yeah, really likely.' Ron folded his arms. 'The day I get out of here alive the Cornish pixies will have taken over...'

'Keep the faith,' George whispered. 'It's all we've got. Keep your head down and out of trouble. It's all we can do.'

Harry sat down next to Hermione, who almost leapt a foot in the air when she heard Harry spoke.

'Something up?'

She frowned at him, a little surprised by his fake chirpiness at that time of the morning.

'Nothing. Just the usual...' muttered Neville from behind his book.

Hermione suddenly threw down her wand in defeat after failing in whatever she was trying to do. 'It's no use!' she wailed out defiantly, 'I don't even know why I'm here! It's an obscure form of torture to put me through all this!'

Neville looked at the pair of them over the top of his book. 'Honestly Hermione, it's very simple charm. You're just pronouncing it wrong. It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. It's perfectly straightforward. You should have mastered it in the first year.' Neville tutted disapprovingly and turned back to his book.

Now Harry was just as disturbed as Ron. It was at this point his eyes darted around the room and observed in horror the subtle changes that seemed to have occurred overnight. Despite the blazing winter sunshine that was streaking through the windows, the enchanted ceiling remained as dark and grey as the night before. None of the usual laughter could be heard wafting across the room with the aromas of the now absent bacon. Its absence left him feeling cold. He then tore his eyes away from the frustrated Hermione and glanced up to the top table, hoping to see a friendly face or two that would calm his nerves, reassure him a little. But it was an even stranger sight. Professor McGonagall seemed to be on auto pilot, the twinkle in her eye absent as she mechanically ate her toast, now cold and burnt, and tasting like cardboard, Harry noticed as he spat out his mouthful onto a dirty looking napkin. The other teachers seemed in the same state of mind, tired, drained even with the effort of existing, Hagrid looking as downtrodden as if Buckbeak had been sentenced to multiple amputation. The headmaster's chair, Harry noticed with a chill, was empty.

Nothing made any sense. Ron scared to even speak to him? Hermione losing her touch? Neville reading over breakfast? He needed answers. He couldn't go off to Defence against the Dark Arts without some form of explanation. Had everybody had a personality transplant overnight?

By this stage, Hermione was looking at him in an uncertain, apprehensive way, trying to shift away down the bench as if not to be seen with him. As if he was dangerous. For an instant she looked at him desperately, pleading for understanding as she turned back to her soggy cereal, almost knocking over her glass of milk in the process. That was the final straw. Harry grabbed Hermione by the wrist, ignoring her protests, and dragged her out of the hall and into an unused classroom.

'What are you doing?' she hissed when he shut the door, checking for teachers or a mischievous Peeves. 'I'm really going to get in trouble for this! It's bad enough that Snape hates my guts, but honestly! This'll be just like the time I covered the class in shrinking potion...'

'Hermione,' he snapped harshly, 'shut up and listen. What's going on?'

She looked as confused as Ron normally did. 'With what?'

'With everything!' Harry cried, looking back out of the classroom at a moving group of merry Slytherins. He pushed the door to as they passed 'Why isn't Ron talking to me? Was it because of that chess thing last night?'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' said Hermione, baffled as ever.

'You do know! You were there! You beat him, for pity's sake!'

'Harry, I'd lose a game of chess to a stuffed iguana.'

'But what about this morning with Neville? What was that about?'

'Come on now, Harry, you're really scaring me.' She looked it too. 'I know I've done this before, but if I'm caught talking to you...'

'WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?!?'

Hermione suddenly fell silent. They both stood there for a moment, a little stunned by what had passed between them. Hermione was in deep thought.

'Look...' she began softy as he turned to look out the window. 'I know it's hard for you. It's hard for all of us. We've just got to survive this year and hope that Dumbledore bloke will come up with the goods. I think he did it once before you know - '

'What?'

Harry had given up yelling. Nothing was making any sense. He didn't expect it to.

'You know,' said Hermione, looking at Harry from under raised eyebrows. 'The plan?'

'What plan?'

'Have you been asleep for the past five years or something?' Hermione sighed, exasperated. 'Or did a Death Eater sneak in from the gates last night and wipe your memory blank? You're as bad as me sometimes...'

Harry paused. Then it dawned on him, his eyes grew wider and he felt the colour drain from his face.

'This is a very, very bad dream, right?'

Hermione frowned as Harry let the realisation sweep over him. He needed answers.

'What did we have for dinner last night?'

'The usual. What we have everyday. Honestly, they really got to you didn't they?'

'What did we have for dinner?'

'Harry...'

'What did we have for dinner?'

'Cold Chicken soup.'

Cold Chicken soup, Cold Chicken soup...the words echoed round the room as Hermione snapped, her confused tone bouncing off the stone walls. Harry almost cried out in realisation and alarmed, but tones down his reaction to a mere gasp.

'Don't you understand?'

'Understand what?' said Hermione, throwing her arms into the air. 'You're not making any sense. Maybe you should go to the hospital wing and get Madam Pomfrey to check you over. If we can coax her out of the cupboard....'

'EXACTLY!' Harry yelled, looking desperately at Hermione for her to understand. 'This isn't reality - and its just too real to be a dream. This is something else. A dimension must slipped and I've ended up here, crossed a threshold or something...'

'Harry, I think if we'd jumped dimensions I would have noticed. I'm a light sleeper.'

'No, no - not you. Just me. It must have been the fever. It was roaring when I went to sleep last night, and I must have passed out. These magical illnesses are really something, aren't they?' Harry shook his head. 'I thought the flu was bad enough. I'm from a universe where we had lamb stew for dinner last night, Ron's my best friend, Neville's a klutz and you get 112% in tests without batting an eyelid!'

'I wish...'

'No, it's true! It's all true!'

Hermione thought for a moment.

'If what you're saying isn't the mad ramblings of a mentally deranged person, then...'

'...I'll be able to tell you the almost-opposite of what you already know.'

Harry sighed with the effort of it all. However, Hermione remained eager.

'Example?'

'The Yule ball. Last year. You went with Victor Krum, the Bulgarian Quidditch seeker and wore periwinkle blue robes. And your hair in some twisty thing.'

'The Yule ball, last year, I was so lame I ended up going with a weedy third year who wouldn't know what a bludger was if it hit him on the nose. I also wore blood red robes and my hair down.'

'Maybe that's not such a good example...' Harry replied. Clothes didn't exactly prove his theory. 'OK, try this one. Next lesson, I have Defence against the Dark Arts with Professor Lupin. He taught us in the third year and now he's back for our fifth.'

There was a pause. A deathly pause.

'We have Tuition in Dark Arts,' stuttered Hermione. Her voice became suddenly hushed. 'With Professor Snape. Why would we have defence lessons? This is a school for the Dark Arts. We're made to come here. Only the Slytherins like it and let's face it, they're all Death Eaters in the making. The rest of us are here against our will, or until Dumbledore finds the means to come back and overthrow You-Know-Who...'

'What?' Harry whispered hoarsely. 'Voldemort?'

'Oh, so you DO remember something?' said Hermione, one eyebrow raised. 'Yeah. Grand old Dumbledore is supposed to be trying to save the day. Haven't heard a peep out of him yet.'

Harry slowly paced the room, this new information forming fumes of muddled thought in his head. He looked back at Hermione, dazed and confused.

'But if this is a school for the Dark Arts, controlled by the Dark side,' he said slowly, 'then why are you here? I thought Muggle-borns would have been banned, or something...'

Hermione simply shrugged. 'You tell me. They put a charm on my parents to convince them to send me here. I think that they think if us Muggle-borns agree to do their bidding, we can redeem themselves, make ourselves pure blood by default. You-Know-Who's a half blood after all, I've heard - but not many people know that. The greatest dictators are always the greatest hypocrites. But if you can see method in the madness, then you're more sane that I give you credit for.'

'And everyone hates me because?...'

The killer question.

'We're made to.' She replied, shortly. 'Your family refused to go over to the dark side. I've heard - and I'm sorry about this but with no one allowed to speak to you, the reality is a little scarce - they went into hiding but you got dragged out just as you turned eleven. That is why you don't go home for the holidays, isn't it?'

She paused and glanced over at Harry as he turned a deathly shade of pale. He began muttering to himself, milling ideas and possibilities around in his head as he paced a little round the room. He reached up to his forehead to trace his fingertips across his scar, but met nothing but untainted flesh. He stared at Hermione, wide eyed and shocked.

'You mean...' Harry stuttered, trembling, 'my parents are alive?'

'Better believe it,' she muttered. 'You really got out of bed on the wrong side this morning, didn't you? Now if you don't mind, I need to get to class. Can you wait five minutes before you follow me? I don't want to spend next Friday night cleaning up moaning Myrtle's bathroom. I spend enough time in detention as it is...'

Harry watched her stride across the classroom and reach for the door handle. Then she turned and glanced back at him with saddened eyes, sitting on a desk with his head in his hands.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

***

'Harry, Harry! Wake up!'

Ron was leaning over his friend, shaking him by the shoulders to induce him out of his far from peaceful slumber. Everyone else in the dorm had departed. Ron had heard mumbling throughout the night, and simply put it down to Harry's overactive scar tissue. The nightmares had been getting worse in recent weeks, even if it was only Ron who remembered them. But now he was worried. Harry felt cold to the touch, yet beads of sweat were now beginning to appear on his forehead and trace along the vivid red lightning bolt that told so much about his companion's tragic past. Ron often wondered how everything would have turned out for that lack of marking.

'Honestly, Harry,' he said again, leaning across the bed. 'Wake up! Quidditch Practice!'

No reaction. Harry started to shake. The forced smile that had etched itself on Ron's face began to fade rapidly.

'Harry?'

'What are you yelling about?' said a slightly annoyed female voice. Hermione had appeared at the door of the boy's dormitory in her dressing gown. 'You're going to wake up the whole tower in the minute...' she drifted off as she saw Harry, tangled up in his bed sheets, the colour of a ghost. Ron looked up at her expectantly. Hermione for a minute could only look back. Then she straightened up and her look at Ron became instructive.

'Go and get someone. Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, anyone. Now!'

Ron disappeared as Hermione approached the bed. She sank to her knees.

'Oh Harry, she whispered, 'What's happening to you?'

*