Second Chance

He ducked, swerved, and took a short nosedive into the center of the pitch. Harry's Firebolt swayed perfectly, responding to his every touch. The snitch sparkled behind him and he knew it. He felt Draco swoop down before him and he doubled back sharply, gaining a quarter second lead that would get him to the snitch. He needed a slight bank to the right; he leaned and fell into a spin, more violently so than expected. Harry reached out for the golden orb and stretched. His broom bucked, found by a bludger, and he fell, twisting, onto the green of the pitch, blacking out.

=Blast= he thought as he connected with the soil.

Harry squinted one eye open and saw a bright white ceiling. He groaned to himself--he couldn't remember closing his gloved fist around that little ball before lapsing into unconsciousness. Now he lay in the hospital bed. He reached his hand out to his left and groped for his glasses, but found nothing. Curious, he had been in the hospital wing so many times they had veritably reserved a bed for him. Had they placed him elsewhere? He turned to observe.

"Oh, you're awake?"

The comment was more a question than an exclamation, and Harry wondered who had stayed up with him all this time and tried to place the voice. It was most certainly no male voice, and this restriction made it all the more difficult to decipher.

"Hermione?" he moaned. "'Mione, what happened? Did we win?"

The voice chuckled and a gentle hand pet his head. Harry squinted and tried to sit up; that gentle hand became firm and pressed him back into the bed. "I'm not Hermione, hun. My name's Carrie. What did you win?" A cool cloth was draped over Harry's forehead and he reached up quickly, grasping a wrist as it tried to retreat.

"The Quidditch game. Did Gryffindor win the Quidditch game?" Harry used the bit of leverage he had gained with the conquest of Carrie's wrist to attempt to pull himself up; Carrie had little choice but to help him. Harry peered at her, desperately trying to make out her features as the cloth fell past his eyes. As of present, he could see a blur of short dark hair and dark-rimmed eyes.

"Quidditch? Gryffindor? Hermione? Dear, you sound like a Harry Potter book!"

"I AM Harry Potter. Where are my glasses?"

Carrie stared and numbly handed Harry his round glasses. Slipping them on, he glared at her for a solid moment. Seeing he was making her a little nervous, Harry glanced around the room. "This isn't the hospital wing," he stated bluntly. Carrie scratched her arm anxiously and nodded.

"It's my living room. Look, the heat must really do a number on you. I found you passed out on my front steps. I think you're a little delusional--thinking you're Harry Potter?"

"But I AM Harry Potter!" Carrie couldn't repress a chuckle. She turned away and Harry fumed.

By the time she glanced back, he was on his feet and fumbling through his robes, which had been strewn over the arm of an adjacent chair. He noticed only briefly that his protective gear had disappeared. Upon finding his wand, Harry jerked his garments on. His wand was pointed threateningly at Carrie as he did up his fastenings with his left hand. "Don't make me use this. Strictly speaking, I can't; but I consider this an emergency, and I'm sure I'd be let off."

Carrie, realization suddenly setting in, folded her arms and crossed her legs. "Go on and try, Harry. It won't work." She watched with satisfaction as nothing came of his attempts to hex her. "See? Nothing will happen, Harry. You're not in the wizarding world anymore. This place is muggle through and through. Now calm down, we'll talk this through, and we'll get you out of here as soon as we can." She stood and grasped Harry by the shoulders; she pressed him into the couch.

"Gee, thanks, I'm so glad you're so happy to see me!" Harry glared. Carrie couldn't help laughing.

"What's wrong, dear, are you upset that I'm not a rabid fan girl that trips over herself to meet you? Mind you, if you were Draco Malfoy, I'd fulfill that character sketch for you."

For a moment, Harry was on the verge of inquiring how she knew about Malfoy, but quickly silenced. He decided to keep on the angry, sullen suspicion for a while longer. Carrie was prying his wand from his hand and he gripped it tighter.

"Listen, Harry. I'm a muggle. As muggle as they come. I won't be able to work the thing; I just want to take a look at it. I've always been fascinated by magic. Very envious." She managed to retrieve the wand when Harry relaxed his grip in confused surprise.

"Envious?" he whispered as Carrie inspected the wand. He heard her murmur the components as she scoured it tip to handle. She marveled at the simplicity and finally gasped her delight.

"Phoenix feather."

Harry leaned forward, suddenly entranced by the unusual fame he was receiving. "You want to give it a wave? Since it's not going to do anything," he added hastily. Carrie grinned and pointed to a book on the table to their left. She murmured a levitation charm while flicking the wand expertly. Naturally, nothing happened. She blushed at Harry.

"I shouldn't have really expected anything." She handed the wooden dowel back to Harry and smiled. He tucked it back into his pocket and continued to gape at Carrie.

"You--you performed that charm quite well. You're sure you're no witch?" He glared, puzzle pieces swimming through his head but none connecting. Suddenly his concussion flashed into his memory and he briefly wondered if perhaps all this was some sort of illusion. Perhaps Madame Pomfrey had forgotten his Anti-Dream Draught.

"Harry, if I was a witch, I would have had results with that wand, no?" Carrie laughed a bit at Harry's angry but embarrassed expression.

"Some sort of magical creature that needs no wand. Overgrown pixie or something."

Carrie laughed loudly, tears of humour pouring down her cheeks. She doubled over in laughter and her shoulders shook. Harry could only fume. Suddenly, Carrie stood up, spreading her arms so that Harry may see her full height. She stood rather tall, taller than the average female of her estimated age. "I ain't no stinkin' pixie, Harry!"

Harry took this opportunity to give her a solid once over, in the case of future identification. Her hair hung about shoulder length and looked rather stringy; not unlike Sirius', Harry thought fleetingly. Her already dark eyes were given attention through the dark liner rimming them. A rather square face, it seemed to radiate when the thin lips smiled. She was tall, no doubt, and not large, but slender would be a term a bit too generous. Curvy, yes, but she was not quite slim.

"Clearly; pixies are delicate." Immediately, Harry could see he had spoken rudely. Carrie's mouth went thin, her arms fell, and her dark eyes became sullenly stormy, but otherwise emotionless.

"Let's try to figure out how you got here and how to get you back to Hogwarts." She pushed strands of hair out of her eyes and Harry could see more clearly the scarce tears collecting at the corners. He pressed his glasses further up on his nose and sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry." Harry watched Carrie flick her eyes to his and then down at the forgotten cloth. "I didn't mean to be rude. I'm confused and I probably have a concussion. I want to thank you for helping me. Now let's work together and see if we can solve this problem." Carrie chuckled at his explanation and Harry couldn't help but grin at the infectious laughter. "What, Carrie?"

"Your concussion is your excuse for being rude to me?" she giggled. Harry blushed and reluctantly nodded. "That's pathetic!" He nodded again. There was a hearty chuckle between them and a sudden, almost awkward silence. "So, tell me how you happened to pass out on my steps."

Harry recounted the story, inadvertently describing each and every detail of his involvement in the match. He glanced up at intervals and noticed how Carrie's eyes began to sparkle at the mention of his beloved Quidditch. As he told of the violence of the beaters, she lit up. In his recollection of the frenzy of the chasers, she sat a bit straighter. Upon his imparting of the valor of the keeper, she nearly shed tears. Harry couldn't help indulging the details, elaborating and adding occurrences to keep the excitement up. Carrie was on the edge of her seat, and gasped with tension when Harry described the dive and tip of the broom. She moaned when he was sideswiped by the bludger and Harry heard the intake of breath between her teeth when he fell.

"I suppose you're lucky you got away with just a concussion!" Carrie gasped, wiping her eyes. "Well, I'm not sure how to get you back to Hogwarts right off, but I'm sure we'll think of something soon enough."

Harry stopped her at that line of reasoning with a lifted hand and a frowning brow. "Did I end up in America? You've got a very distinct accent."

A bit taken aback, Carrie stopped in her travels to the wastebasket. "Eh, yes. Yes, you're in America."

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed. "I've always wanted to come to America! Tell me, where in America did I land?"

Carrie informed him of the region and a bit of the geography while clearing away the slew of dirty tissues she'd made. "It's surprising that you're so interested in America. I've been fascinated with Britain and everything to do with it since I read your books! I've actually taken to watching the BBC over here. Granted, it's not THE BBC, but it's an adaptation of it."

"My … books?" Harry asked weakly. He watched Carrie settle back in her seat and set a mug of something hot before each of them. He sniffed the steam and came the satisfactory conclusion that it was some sort of flavored tea. Swishing the steam over to his nose again, Harry tried to identify the scent.

"It's apple," Carrie filled in, placing hers back down. "Anyhow. You haven't heard of your books? There's only the first four years at Hogwarts, but it's still an incredible hit. It's all there, from your defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as a child right up to his resurrection thirteen years later."

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Harry repeated blankly, his mug halfway to his lips. Carrie took on an awkward expression, like a child whose information regarding a past offense was being slowly tugged out of them. She bit her lip. "What are you talking about?"

"YOU know, Harry. I know you know. Volde--" Carrie cut off, turning a nervous pink. Harry raised a worried eyebrow and gave up on his tea. The tilt of his head urged Carrie on. "Voldemort," she hissed, sounding near tears. She flinched and glanced around as though expecting him to come out of the woodwork.

Harry retained his blank face and blinked a few times for extra measure. "I haven't the faintest as to what you're talking about. I'm still trying to figure out why anyone would write a book about me, of all people, and you're throwing this idea of someone named Voldemort--"

"Don't say the name," Carrie begged.

"I just don't understand what you're getting at." Harry started as Carrie shot her chair back, emitting a squeaking skidding noise, and dashed up the stairs off the kitchen. Harry was glancing around, curious as to whether he ought to be hanging around, when Carrie bounded down into the room again. She cradled in her arms a set of four books which increased in thickness as the series progressed. "These are all about me?" Harry asked faintly. He picked up the thickest and flipped through the pages. He frowned upon reading certain passages. "Triwizard Tournament? That was outlawed years ago! It's very dangerous! And I've never in my life seen Malfoy turned into a ferret, although it is a good idea. Is there a different teacher in each book? Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been taught by Professor Giligun, and I've never heard of this Mirror of Erised," he mumbled, thumbing through the books in no sort of order.

He looked up to see Carrie watching him with a look that showed that her entire world had just crumbled. Tears were building up behind her eyes and she bit her lip to prevent the spill. "So they're entirely inaccurate?" she managed.

Harry shook his head and sipped at his tea. "Not entirely," he assured. "The basic details-the Hogwarts description, most of the teachers, the friendships-are right, although I don't recall hearing that Dean was of muggle parentage. It's the basic plot line that's incorrect. I've never heard of this Voldemort person--" Carrie cringed, "--and my parents are very much alive. I can, indeed, talk to snakes, though I've never been considered heir of Slytherin. I go home each holiday to my parents and if I were to see this mirror," he was currently reading the famous tear-jerking passage, "I would see myself and Malfoy in a peaceful friendship. I regret, to this day, turning down the opportunity to give him a chance." Carrie watched with fascination as Harry paged through the last few pages of Prisoner of Azkaban. "I've also had no problems getting to Hogsmeade," he commented. "Though there was no real desperation to go. The kids that were of muggle descent were fascinated by it, but the rest of us-Ron, Malfoy and myself-already knew the workings of a wizarding town. We lived in them."

"Harry, will you tell me what really happened? Will you tell me how you got your scar?"

Harry nodded meditatively and twiddled with the handle of his mug. "There's not much to tell and it's not nearly as interesting as what's already been published." A wry smile crossed Harry's face and his fingers passed over his small scar. Carrie folded her arms and set her chin on them to pay rapt attention to Harry's story. "I was born quite normally and lived quite normally until I was about six. I hadn't shown any signs of magic yet, and my parents, a witch and a wizard, became worried. My mother especially, as she was of muggle descent, and worried that it may have passed to me, though they knew that muggle or wizarding blood comes from your parents, not your grandparents. My father was especially involved in trying to bring out any magic hiding in me. He used to sneak up on me all the time, trying to scare a puff of smoke or sparks out of me. That's how one's magic usually comes out-"

"Right, through vivid emotions," Carrie supplied before going quiet again.

"Correct. So anyway, my dad caught me at one point going down the stairs. I jumped a mile but managed to get down all right. I turned around to yell at him and tripped over my own two feet." Harry chuckled at the memory and grinned. "I landed head first into the wall, splitting my head open. It was pure luck that I ended up with such an oddly shaped mark."

"But no signs of magic?" Carrie asked meekly, suppressing a giggle.

Harry laughed. "Not a bit until I was ten. Funny, all that happened then was my toothbrush went up in purple flames when my mother told me to go to bed. I've never seen her happier with a small house fire."

Carrie laughed and cleared away the empty mugs. As she stood at the stove to pour refills for both of them, she noticed Harry had long since shrugged off his robes and sat now in ratty jeans and a striped rugby shirt, the sleeves of which were tugged up to the elbows. A glimmer of sweat shone on his forehead. Carrie set the kettle back on the stove and smiled brightly. "Should we switch to something colder?" she inquired. Harry looked up, a little jarred of his thoughts, but nodded vaguely in her general direction. He awoke a bit more completely when a wet glass of milky soda clapped down before him.

"What's this?" he asked carefully, peering into the cloudy amber liquid. Tiny bubbles drifted lazily upwards and collected in a clotted head. He glanced up, and Carrie's image sharpened from the tinted depiction.

"I tried to make butterbeer," she fretted. "I'm sure it's not exact, but I got the recipe off the internet and I think it came out all right. I'm sure what you're used to looks a bit more appealing, but it tastes OK." Her face shone with hope diffused with worry. Harry hitched his breath and bravely took a gulp.

"Gah!" he exclaimed a moment later. "Blimey, that's incredibly sweet." Carrie looked as though she wasn't quite sure how to take the comment. Harry grinned. "It's very good. But it's not butterbeer. Cheers!" He raised his glass with a warm smile. His glass clinked to Carrie's and he drank deeply.

"So what exactly IS butterbeer?" Carrie inquired. Harry chuckled and drained his glass.

"That's hard to explain." He smiled over the rim of his cup. "Ah, but I was telling a story, wasn't I?" A nod later and he was full steam. "Well, I got my letter to Hogwarts about a week after the toothbrush incident. It was relatively uneventful. The first time I ever met Hagrid was when he led us up to the castle; my mum took me to Diagon Alley to get my things, and that wasn't all that impressive, either. I'd been there several times before, so I rather knew what to expect. I'd always been rather fond of Madame Malkin," he reminisced. "She was very sweet to me, kind of like a grandmother." Harry smiled and fingered the slightly frayed hem of his robe. "Looks like I'll be seeing her again soon," he laughed. "So, I went off to school and I went up under the sorting hat. I admit, I did have the slightest wavering of possibly sitting at the Slytherin table, but I think my pride wouldn't allow me to sit with Draco after the way I had turned him down that afternoon."

"So he really did insult Ron and ask for your friendship?"

Harry shook his head, regret filling his features as his eyes grew worried. "He never really insulted him. Made an offensive comment, but it was unintentional. I was pent up and nervous so I flew off the handle. I'll never forget the look on his face. For a few seconds, there was raw pain in his eyes. His eyes grew cold after that. They'd been warm until I turned him down."

"What did he say?" Carrie inquired softly. Harry's eyes remained downcast and he traced an overly bloomed flower on the plastic tablecloth with his thumbnail. The very recollection pained him and he seemed to have difficulty remembering.

"He introduced himself. Ron coughed, and I will admit it sounded a snort, but it wasn't. Draco didn't quite notice. He turned to Ron and his exact words were 'You must be one of the Weasley boys, judging by the hair and the robes.' Ron had the trademark red hair and the Weasleys were known to buy their robes long, so they'd last longer. Draco didn't mean to be rude, but I spat at him anyhow."

Carrie sighed and fidgeted as Harry fingered his glass and drifted a bit. She suddenly realized they'd talked deep into the night. "Harry! You should get some sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning. I'm sure you're tired, and you need your rest."

Harry squinted, then his eyes widened as he caught sight of the clock. "Yes, I suppose. Thank you so much for letting me stay," he smiled. With a friendly hug and quick kiss on the cheek, Harry was ushered into a spare bedroom. Surprisingly, it wasn't long before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Harry James Potter, you get up this INSTANT!"

Harry jerked awake and grabbed at his glasses. "Carrie, what?! What happened?" He squinted at the figures that stood before him. A bushy brown head shook side to side and sidled out of view. A flaming red head peered closer to him and came into sudden clarity as Harry slipped his glasses on. "Ron?"

"Hey, there, Harry. Feeling better? We won 190 to nothing," he offered, as a get well wish. Harry frowned. Could it have been a dream? All that reminiscing over cheap tea and cheaper butterbeer? He frowned at Ron.

"Ron, I'm really out of it. Where are my parents?" he asked. He saw Ron's face pale.

"Harry, they're dead. You know that," he started quietly. "You-Know-Who killed them. Harry, should I get Madame--"

"No, no. I'm all right now. I just needed that to snap me back. I just had the most unusual dream. Ron? Ron, do me a massive favor?" he asked carefully. Ron jumped up, eager to do anything for Harry. "Find Malfoy. Tell him I need to see him. If he won't come, get him here however you must. I need to see him. Tell him I want to start over. He'll know what I mean."

Ron's eyes widened, but he sighed, resigned. "You're crackers, but all right." He stood to leave, and Harry squinted in thought.

=I may be crackers, but I'm going to do this right this time.=