He woke up slowly, savoring his nameless presence in the world. Sometimes, after a deep sleep, you don't immediately realize who you are, and those moments are so serene that you want to stretch them out forever. But reason didn't care for his desires and steadily cleared up until his memory awakened. And then he remembered — he was Harry Potter. The boy-who-lived-again-and-this-time-for-good. Because he had finally defeated Voldemort and survived.
The victory was bloody, and those who survived with him had no strength left to celebrate. The last thing he remembered was searching for Ginny among the few defenders of Hogwarts and seeing her alive just moments before he collapsed into unconsciousness. And now he was here, in bed. It was comfortable and soft; he didn't want to get up. He felt utterly calm, without the slightest trace of pain or disorder within himself. They must have pumped him full of potions.
He felt detached from the recent battle, as if it had happened to someone else. Probably because of the calming draughts, or maybe because, as usual, he had spent a few days unconscious, just like after another annual Hogwarts disaster. A bad tradition — it was time to break it.
He smiled at the thought, without opening his eyes. Maybe he didn't need to join the Auror office after all — what had he been thinking? He surprised himself at the thought — not joining the Auror office used to be like a life failure for him; he never even joked about such sacrilege. But that was before the war, and now everything was behind him. Now, he could just live.
His mind was surprisingly clear, almost unusually so. His thoughts flowed easily and sharply — clearly, he'd slept enough for a week ahead. Lying and thinking was pleasant, but it was time to open his eyes and delight his friends with his awakening. They were probably nearby, eagerly waiting for him to wake up. His best friend, Ron — flawed, but still his best. There was no other. His loyal friend Hermione, who even erased her parents' memory and sent them away to accompany him in the search for Horcruxes. And Ginny, brave, radiant Ginny. His Ginny...
Harry sat up in bed and swung his legs to the floor. His sleepy gaze swept across the dimly lit room, and in an instant, it became alert. If he wasn't in the Hogwarts hospital wing, then where was he? The grim interior and heavy, thick curtains on the window suggested he was probably at Grimmauld Place. The room was unfamiliar to him, but they could have put him in one of the bedrooms he hadn't been in before. There were so many rooms here, it was impossible to remember them all.
He automatically reached toward the bedside table for his glasses and immediately discovered two surprises. The first — there were no glasses within reach. The second — he didn't need them, as he could see perfectly well without them. In the final battle, he had once again been hit by Voldemort's killing curse. If he survived, could it have killed his nearsightedness?
After confirming that he could see perfectly into the distance, Harry looked down at his hands. He could also see them clearly up close — but these weren't his hands. They weren't the familiar ones, with tiny scars, broken nails, and potion burns, but different ones, slender, slightly larger, and more elegant, with strong, long fingers and narrow, even nails. He didn't remember losing his hands — so where did these come from? Had something else happened to him while he was unconscious?
Harry looked down at his bare feet, half-covered by the blanket. The feet also seemed unfamiliar. He jumped out of bed — he was only wearing underwear — and looked over himself. Something was wrong, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what. There was a mirror in the bedroom, and he hurried toward it.
A different person stared back at him from the mirror.
Someone his own age. Taller, thinner at the waist, broader in the shoulders. A well-kept, slender body, without scars or signs of malnourishment. You could almost say — like new. A rather narrow, elongated face, milk-white skin untouched by the sun. His hair was also black, the same length and shade as before, but softer and smoother. It didn't stick out in all directions but lay neatly, except for where it was slightly tousled from the pillow on one side. A straight nose with a barely noticeable bump at the top, and deep-set eyes, not green, but dark gray.
Someone else's body, someone else's face. Harry ran a hand through his hair, and the reflection mimicked his movement. The hair immediately fell into place.
What a puzzle…
Whoever had put him here, they had taken care of him. And they probably knew what had happened to him; he just needed to go out and ask. Harry checked the wardrobe and found clothes and shoes that fit him. After dressing, he pushed the door first with his hand, then with his shoulder.
The door was locked. Remembering Alohomora, he glanced around for his wand. He rummaged through the nightstand, the shelves, the wardrobe — but the wand was nowhere to be found.
Combined with everything else, this became the trigger that sent him into a sudden panic. Harry darted around the room, rushing to the window, which also didn't open, and then back to the door. He frantically shook the handle, trying to force it open, and kept rattling it until he scraped his knuckles bloody against the bronze base of the doorknob. Strangely enough, this ridiculous action finally worked, and the door swung open.
The surge of panic receded as abruptly as it had come, replaced by endless suspicion. His friends wouldn't have locked him in, without his wand — did that mean he was with enemies? Maybe this wasn't even Grimmauld Place but just a lookalike?
Instinctively licking the wound on his finger, Harry peeked out into the corridor. No, he was at Grimmauld Place, in his own house, inherited after Sirius's death. The bedroom was on the third floor, and everything around was eerily quiet. Suspicion still gnawed at him — too many strange things had come to light. These could still be enemies, who had somehow taken over his home.
Harry crept down the corridor to the side staircase, trying to move as silently as possible. The second floor was also quiet. He was about to head down to the first floor and into the kitchen when a soft sound from the living room made him jump back down the hallway. The sound of footsteps on the parquet indicated that someone had arrived through the fireplace, and Harry froze, unsure which way to go. Was it a friend? An enemy?
The footsteps stopped, signaling that the person had paused. A few seconds later, similar sounds indicated the arrival of another person. A few more steps away from the fireplace — and the second person also stopped. Harry realized he was holding his breath and drew in a shaky breath. He didn't dare enter the living room to face these people — even if they were allies, they would probably blame him for breaking the locked door. If they even recognized him...
A short, barking laugh pierced through the silence, striking Harry like lightning. That laugh was too familiar — it couldn't be! Harry didn't even notice how he started retreating until his back hit the far end of the corridor door. Following the laugh, a voice he knew all too well spoke from the fireplace:
"And what about my rehabilitation, sir? The rat died at the Malfoys', you can't present it to the Ministry now."
Harry shook his head desperately, trying to dispel the hallucinations. Sirius had died two years ago, he fell into the Veil of Death!
"Yes, yes, my boy, don't worry about it," came a slow, reassuring reply in Dumbledore's unmistakable voice. "First, I must regain my old position and influence."
The hallucinations were intensifying, because Dumbledore had also been dead for a year. He had fallen from the Astronomy Tower and couldn't possibly be speaking as though he were alive and well.
Before, Harry would have fainted, but this body was stronger. He only leaned weakly against the door, struggling with dizziness and listening to the sounds in the room. Judging by the noises, one person after another was arriving in the living room. The room was filling with the sounds of footsteps, short coughs, and indistinct murmurs, both male and female.
Whoever these people were, they were enemies. Because Sirius and Dumbledore were dead.
"Is everyone here?" Dumbledore's voice was heard again, and silence fell in the fireplace room. "Shall we proceed to the meeting?"
"Remus is still left," answered a tall woman's voice. Unfamiliar.
Harry realized that the whole crowd was about to exit into the hallway and see him. He quickly slipped into the nearest door behind him, and in the next moment, it dawned on him that this was the sitting room where the Order of the Phoenix held meetings, and that these people would probably come here. The door in the hallway slammed shut; he had only seconds to hide. There were no wardrobes in the sitting room, and the sofas were too low to crawl under. He pressed himself desperately into the corner beside the door, wishing he could disappear and become invisible.
Suddenly, his elbow slipped into the folds of dark burgundy velvet that covered the walls of the sitting room. Behind the fabric wall covering, he found a hidden niche, and if he had time to think, he would have guessed that it was designed for eavesdropping. But he didn't have time, so he hurriedly squeezed into the gap between the long folds of velvet and found himself inside.
The niche was spacious enough to either stand in or sit on the floor sideways to the room. He barely adjusted the folds behind him when the sound of approaching footsteps from a small crowd echoed down the hallway. Leaning against the wall, Harry tried to calm his rapid breathing and listened as people entered the sitting room one by one, settling into chairs and sofas. Finally, mustering his courage, he slightly parted the velvet folds and peeked into the room with one eye.
At least a dozen people had gathered in the sitting room, half of whom Harry considered dead. At the far wall, in a separate chair, sat Dumbledore, alive, healthy, and not at all worn out. The old wizard's bright blue eyes sparkled energetically from beneath his half-moon glasses, and in his hand, he twirled a wand that Harry recognized as the one placed in the tomb of the former headmaster. On the sofa next to him sat Snape, sardonic and unkempt as always, with his throat bandaged. Arthur and Molly Weasley sat beside Snape, looking content with life and not at all resembling grieving parents mourning Fred.
Sirius and Lupin had taken the sofa by the door on the opposite side of the room, both cheerful and lively. Opposite them sat two of Harry's best friends and his girlfriend: closest to him was Hermione, then Ron, and finally Ginny. Harry could only see them from the side and behind, so he could only make out their faces in profile, but he clearly saw Ron's arm, slung proprietorially around Hermione, his hand slipping far enough under her arm to squeeze one of her rather ample breasts. Ginny sat on the other side of Ron, her face playing with a familiar flirtatious expression that Harry recognized, the one she used when she wanted to impress someone.
On the sofa next to Dumbledore sat three people whom Harry's mind refused to identify. But Harry couldn't be mistaken, for he had spent hours staring at the wizarding photos of his parents in the album Hagrid had given him, and he had no choice but to admit that the black-haired, bespectacled man, moderately plump and elegantly dressed, was none other than James Potter, his father, and the pretty red-haired woman beside him was Lily Potter, née Evans, his mother.
But the biggest shock was the boy sitting next to Lily Potter. Black-haired, also bespectacled, impeccably dressed, and plump as a piglet, his build and mannerisms most resembled Dudley Dursley, if not for his face. This was what Harry himself might have looked like if Aunt Petunia had raised him as her beloved son instead of Dudley.