Hey guys, welcome to the party~

Now, before we start, fret not, Consuming Shadows is still at the forefront of my mind, and there is absolutely no way I'll be putting that on hold for now. This is just a little something that's been creeping into my mind for the past month or so, and I just had to get the blasted thing out.

So, as the summary states, this is a time travel story (I'm a sucker for these things, and figured I might as well try my hand at it haha), as well as a body swap. I'll be honest, I've never particularly liked body swap stories purely because I haven't really found any seriously written ones/ones with intriguing plots. But oh my lord, recently I stumbled across an AMAZING webcomic by Haribo called "At the End of the Road" - and guys, I can't praise it enough. It has completely destroyed my soul. The characters, the plot, just everything makes me melt. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend :)

This story does take some inspiration from that webcomic, because it is awesome and all throughout reading it was I was like "It is Harry, and it is Tom, my god, I need to do a thing" and ideas just exploded in my head. So bless Haribo for giving us that gem.

Thanks to everyone who's giving this a read (defs check out that webcomic), and let's give this a go.

Warning: The beginning of this chapter deals with the aftermath of the rape of a minor, and the attempted suicide of the same minor. If that bothers anyone, please, please, please, either don't read, or skip the italised section in the beginning.

Edit (29/11/2020): Hey everyone, I've had to make some edits to this first chapter so that the direction I take this story in will make more sense. I've finally figured out what I want to do with this fic, so yay! It's nothing majority. I have just reworked how and when Harry has his dream of what happened to Nathan, and then smoothed the rest of the chapter to reflect this change. Enjoy!

Harry woke with a sharp breath and cruel laughter ringing in his ears.

He stared at the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom for an endless second, memories still dancing along the edges of his sight, and his skin prickled as the early morning air hit his sweat-covered body.

Bile rose in his throat, and Harry shot upright, wrestling with his sheets as he rushed to get to the bathroom. He barely made it in time to empty his stomach in the toilet.

He coughed, spitting the last of the foul, burning liquid from his mouth, and wiped the back of his hand over his lips.

He stayed there for a full minute, hunched over the bowl and waiting for his stomach to settled, before standing and flushing. He slowly stepped up to the sink and raked his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply.

"Harry?"

His shirt was sticking to him uncomfortably, and his hair was plastered to his neck and forehead. Harry quickly yanked the night shirt off and tossed it to the side, leaning over the sink and staring at the mirror intently.

He looked like a mess.

"…Harry?"

"In here," he called, knowing she would find him eventually and that there was no point trying to pretend nothing had happened. She had likely heard him throwing up.

"Harry, are you alright?"

His gaze switched from his reflection to Ginny's. She was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the same gorgeous black lace sleeping gown that he had delighted in taking her out of last night. Her hair was up in a loose bun and her face freshly washed, meaning she had been up for some time already.

"Yeah," he croaked, then immediately cleared his throat to get rid of the grit in his voice. "Yeah, just…just a nightmare."

"Nightmare, or memory?" She asked as she glided towards him, coming to a stop just behind him. Her hands, calloused and warm, landed gently on his back, rubbing the tense muscles there absently.

Her familiar scent surrounded him, and when he exhaled next, he let some of his tension go.

"Is there a difference?" Harry huffed.

Ginny pressed a kiss to his shoulder, watching him carefully. "The war?"

He shook his head.

"Voldemort?"

"No," he swallowed, grimacing at the lingering taste. "Bellatrix. The ministry. Sirius."

She perched her chin on his shoulder, hands snaking around his waist. Harry stared at her arms to give his mind something to focus on. The difference between her fair skin and his own darker shade was stark.

She tilted her head, probing but not demanding. Ginny always knew how to handle him.

"I just kept seeing him fall through the veil," he whispered, closing his eyes as he felt despair well in his gut. "Over and over, and all I could hear was her laughing."

She hummed, thumb stroking along his hip in comfort. The soft puffs of her breaths against his bare skin grounded him in a way he could not describe.

Harry sighed deeply, bowing his head for a moment before turning in her hold and wrapping his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her head.

"Don't be," she replied, pressing another kiss to his collarbone. "It happens to all of us. Are you feeling better?"

He slumped more in her hold, "Yes."

"Then that's all the matters at the moment."

Harry smiled within the confines of her hair, closing his eyes. This was why he loved her so, so much. Whenever he got caught up in his memories, whenever he felt like he was drowning and pulled in too many directions, Ginny made things simpler.

"Thank you, Ms. Weasley," he said gratefully.

She patted him on the chest, pulling back enough to smile up at him. "You are very welcome, Mr. Potter."

Harry leaned down, laying a gentle kiss on her forehead that had her lightly pushing into him. "I probably should get ready," he whispered. "Kingsley asked Ron and me to head in early today to talk the Summers' case over. Hopefully we'll finally get the bastard."

"Good," Ginny said, vicious. "That bastard deserves to be thrown in Azkaban to rot."

Harry stepped back and brushed some of her loose hair behind her ear. "He'll get a trial first, Gin. No more slips like with Sirius."

"You already know he's guilty, Harry. You have so much evidence."

"Which, hopefully, means that things will go quickly, and he'll be put away."

Ginny settled, her frown easing. "Alright, you have a shower, and I'll finish up breakfast. We don't want you to be late."

"Sounds good," he kissed her one last time on the cheek, watching her smile bloom as she slipped back into the bedroom.

The moment the door closed Harry's smile fell. He looked back to the mirror and frowned.

He never liked dreaming of Sirius' death. He much preferred remembering the man when he'd been alive – alive and vibrant and there.

It was probably just the stress from the case, Harry knew.

He and Ron had been working on it for weeks at this point, from the very first moment Summers' niece had been sent into Saint Mungo's; and every day the stress of knowing the man had not been caught yet ate at him.

He supposed it was only natural that his dreams would be plagued by memories of his other failures.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, then stripped the rest of his clothes off and jumped into the shower, pushing the memory out of his mind for now.

When he finally entered the kitchen, fully dressed in his uniform, Ginny was in the living room. She wore half her Quidditch gear, leaving her upper body bare except for her bra.

"Nice," Harry commented as he moved to the table where a plate sat for him. Ginny smirked at him from over her shoulder.

"When you get home," she promised, "now hurry up and eat so you can get going."

"Yes ma'am." He saluted, taking a seat and popping some bacon into his mouth. He groaned in delight, tilting his head back to watch her. "Have I told you you're amazing?" He asked.

"Not today you haven't," she laughed, reaching over him to snatch a piece of toast from his plate.

"You're amazing."

"I know," she said through a mouthful. "You're going to be late."

Harry grinned, finishing his last few bites before placing his dishes in the sink. He kissed Ginny once more, because he could and he would never get sick of the taste of her lips, then ducked into the fireplace with a handful of floo powder.

"See you tonight. Kick their arses."

"Always do," she replied, leaning on the back of the couch. "Stay safe. I love you."

"Love you too."

And then he was gone.

OoO

"Get out of the way!" Harry shouted, feet pounding against the cobblestone floor as he followed his target.

People scrambled to the side, either simply reacting to the authority in his voice, or because they recognised him. Harry did not particularly care, so long as they moved.

He shoved a poor man that was too slow to move out of his path and ran faster, eyes pinned to the fleeing figure of Robert Summers.

He wanted nothing more than to throw a hex, but with the street so full, Harry could hardly risk injuring some innocent bystander.

He and Ron had been completely caught by surprise when they had stumbled across the man, hiding in his half-sister's abandoned shop. They had been following up on a lead from Kingsley, rechecking with some of the family – close or distant – that Summers might have used to avoid them.

Harry had assumed that the man would not be stupid enough to remain in such an obvious place, but clearly they had overestimated his intelligence.

"Summers!" He barked, causing more people to part before him. "Stop!"

Summers kept running – not that Harry had expected anything else. No one ever stopped when he ordered it.

Summers tripped over a stray cart, sending items flying and causing another explosion of chaos as he stumbled and almost fell. Despite the man's girth though, he was remarkably agile, and he was on his feet and running in a split second.

Harry bit back a curse as he leapt over the fallen items and weaved through another cluster of people blocking his path.

Ron, he knew, was somewhere behind him, delayed due to a curse that Summers had stupidly thrown into a crowd of shoppers, but Harry knew he would be following along soon.

Summers suddenly veered to the side, slipping down the entry into Knockturn Alley.

Harry took the upcoming turn mere metres behind Summers, almost crashing into a haggard looking witch. The woman jolted in shock, and Harry barely side-stepped in time.

He pushed past her, somewhere between gentle and rough, and started off again.

Fortunately, he had little trouble gaining ground again. Summers was much like a bull, carving through the crowds like a knife. All Harry had to do was follow the gap.

He swerved around another corner, bending to avoid a broken pipe that hung down into the thin street, and straightened in time to see Summers slip into a building. The door was hanging half off its hinges, and most of the windows were boarded up with wood so old it was discoloured.

With narrowed eyes, Harry went after him.

He scaled the front steps and carefully tugged his wand from its holster.

Harry stuck close to the wall, peeking around the doorway, and taking in the dusty, decrepit insides of what appeared to be an abandoned shop. A number of glass containers lined the shelves, with what must have once been a counter protruding from the back wall.

There was some broken glass on the floor, and Harry stepped around the shards slowly, testing the floorboards before putting his full weight on them.

He paused just a few feet inside, eyes darting around the badly lit space, searching for his target.

A sharp creak to his left had him spinning and sending a simple stupefy in that direction.

Summer dodged with a yelp, shooting a sickly yellow curse in retaliation. Harry batted the curse away with a wave of his wand, sending it ricocheting into one of the shelving units.

He threw up a shield when Summers continued his assault, gritting his teeth as the spells and curses rained down on him without pause.

Harry squinted, watching through the bright flashes as Summers began circling towards the staircase in the far corner. He tensed in preparation, waiting until the man turned to bolt up the stairs before dropping his shield and giving chase yet again.

The sound of their footsteps on the wooden stairs was deafening, and with its sharp turns and many levels, navigating the dilapidated staircase was a struggle. Harry was just grateful that Summers was more preoccupied climbing than trying to stop him from following.

Harry vaulted up the last few steps, catching the door that was swinging closed with his shoulder and crashing into the top floor with none of his usual grace.

He skidded to a stop, head twisting frantically, eyes just catching Summers as the man scrambled out of the far window, the scuffed tips of the man's boots disappearing as he clawed his way onto the roof.

Harry swore, throwing himself after the other. He pulled himself out the window, grasping at the lip of the roof and tugging himself upwards.

He rolled to his feet, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"Summers!" He snapped, watching as the gasping man rushed to the other side of the roof with no cation. "Enough of this shit. You're done." Harry shot off a quick expelliarmus, claiming the other's wand and tucking it into his belt.

Summers spun around to face him, eyes wild. He flinched backwards, arms gesturing desperately. "No! No!" The man cried. "I'm innocent – I never touched her!"

"If you're innocent, why did you attack my colleague and me? Why did you run?" Harry tread closer, keeping half an eye on where he put his feet, and the other on how close Summers was to the edge of the roof.

"You're aurors!" Summers shouted, stepping back again in fear as Harry prowled ever nearer. "You're like mad dogs! You don't listen!"

"It's not my job to listen to your whines," Harry told him, stopping just a few feet away. "I just bring in people like you."

"I didn't do it!"

Harry scowled, his patience wearing thin. The chase, first through Diagon Alley, then into Knockturn, had already pushed him to his limit. Summers' pathetic pleas were doing nothing to endear the man to him.

"Look, if you're innocent, why not just come down to the Department and we can clear all of this up? Running makes you look guilty." But Summers was already shaking his head before Harry could finish.

Harry sighed, "Fine."

He raised his wand, ready to knock the bastard out and bodily drag him into a cell.

The fear in Summers' eyes burned brighter, and Harry took a moment to wonder if it was due to the prospect of facing justice for his assault on his niece, or because he was staring down the wand of Harry Potter.

Perhaps it was a combination.

There was a reason why Harry was one of the youngest aurors on the force. Why his training only lasted a short eight months, rather than the customary three years. Why his record was quickly rising to the level of Alastor Moody himself.

Harry clenched his jaw, sighing through his nose as Summers trembled in front of him. He studied the other man, judged the distance between him and the edge of the roof, then muttered, "Stupefy."

The spell struck Summers square in his chest, sending him crashing to the roof with a cut-off yelp. Harry stood still for a moment, before lowering his wand. He took the chance to catch his breath now that he was not in the middle of a fight.

With careful steps, Harry made his way over to Summers, avoiding the loose tiles and planks of wood that covered the area. He reached down and grabbed the man by his shoulder, hauling him onto his front to make sure he did not suffocate from laying on his face.

A necklace caught his attention, the protection runes plainly etched into the metal – easily recognisable even for Harry. He only had a second to blink in surprise before Summers suddenly moved, his arm swinging up fast to strike Harry across the head with a brick.

Harry dropped to the ground, glasses falling away, his sight blacking out from the sudden burst of pain. He closed his eyes, hand cradling his head as something wet and warm slid down his cheek. Harry hissed, squinting against the bright sunlight, as he scrambled to his feet.

He slowly shook his head, blinking heavily as his vision swam from the shift in position. His lungs seized, unable to breathe for a few precious seconds.

Shit, he thought sluggishly, a rush of blistering cold rolling through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

Dimly, beyond the pounding in his temples, he could hear the panicked shrieks of a voice. But for the life of him, Harry could not focus on a single thing they were saying.

Without his glasses, he could barely make out the shape blurry towards him in time. Someone grabbed his wrist, jolting him back. Harry slammed his fist into Summers' nose, forcing the man to release him.

Summers stumbled back, but caught himself before he could fall.

Harry winced, a fresh wave of pain crashing into him. He gritted his teeth, pressing his palm to his head once more. The wet patch had spread, matting his hair down and smearing his face red.

He glanced down at his hand for a moment, and Summers used his distraction to tackle him. They hit the ground hard, and Harry drove his knee into the man's side, then jabbed his elbow sharply upwards, cracking into Summers' jaw.

Harry was smaller though, and disorientated, and his hit lacked enough force to dislodge the larger, heavier man.

Planting his feet, Harry bucked, using the momentum to switch their places. Summers lashed out, almost striking Harry in the head once more, and with a curse he swayed backwards out of reach.

Summers shoved at Harry, hooking a hand on his left knee, and hefting him to the right.

Harry rolled, and his gut lurched when the roof disappeared from under him.

His arms shot out and gripped the gutter, stopping his fall with a terrible screech as the aged metal dipped precariously with his weight.

The pain in his head sang out, blinding him.

The metal screamed again, the section Harry was holding onto almost completely tearing free. He winced, the beginnings of fear licking at him.

He could hear someone calling his name, but his attention had narrowed down to the slowly breaking gutter.

He did not have his wand, and with the wound to his head he could barely see properly, let alone cast a spell.

Ron was somewhere else completely, and he doubted that Summers would suddenly grow a conscience and help him.

"Fuck," Harry bit out.

No. No.

The metal snapped.

I want to live.

OoO

They left, one by one, cruel laughter echoing back to him as they returned to the main alley just a few metres away from where he lay.

No one had come when he had screamed, when he had cried and pleaded. No one had cared. Here, in the bowels of darkness, everyone minded their own business.

He stayed where he had been thrown, body trembling more from the cold night air that was seeping into him than from how violated he felt.

He had stopped reacting to this torture. He just...did not care anymore. It was better that way, to just block it all out.

His clothes were torn open, and he could still feel the ghosts of their hands running along his chest, over his neck, down his thighs – nothing more than mocking caresses until they turned harsh and bruising.

Their horrible words still swirled in his ears, terrible whispers that permeated the quiet of his mind and kept him from falling into the peaceful embrace of unconsciousness.

He reached up and wiped at the tears that painted his cheeks, smearing dirt and grime onto his pale skin.

With aching care, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, staring with blank eyes at the mess they had left him in.

His stomach rolled, but there was nothing for him to throw up.

He forced his clumsy fingers to pull his pants back up his legs, to redo the buttons of his shirt, and to try and fix his jumbled hair. He ignored the sticky wetness clinging to his body as he tucked his shirt in and pulled his belt tight, two notches more than he usually did.

That done, he stood shakily, leaning heavily on the disgusting wall next to him as he waited for his legs to regain their strength.

As he stood there, his head rolled listlessly to the side-alley opening. His dark eyes watched emotionlessly as countless figures moved back and forth, black cloaks hiding even blacker hearts.

No one so much as glanced in his direction, though more than one had to have heard or known what had happened.

He wanted to feel hate. He wanted to burn them all for their selfishness.

But he was exhausted, and could not bring himself to waste what little energy he had left on the likes of them.

Tilting his head back, he stared up at the night sky. His fingers brushed blindly over the wall behind him, feeling the numerous grooves and cracks between the stones.

The wall stretched high above him, towering into the night sky, looming.

The emptiness that had been inside him for weeks, months, years at this point, rose like the tide and choked him.

And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

He turned, and without even a second to reconsider, he began to climb.

The rough stones cut into his soft hands, leaving bloody marks wherever he scrabbled for a hold. His nails were shredded from where he scraped them, and his body was quickly becoming numb as the autumn night air brushed against him – more insistently the higher he went.

He lost his hold only once or twice, his hands too slippery with sweat to get a good grip; but he was determined to get to the top. He had to do this right. What was a little more pain when he was so close to freedom anyway?

When his hands finally curled around the lip of the roof, he almost sobbed with relief. Hauling himself up and over with his trembling arms, he collapsed against the freezing tiles, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes while he regained his breath.

After a moment, he pushed himself upright, casting his gaze out over the area.

From here, he could see the entirety of Knockturn Alley. The twisted dark buildings created a long maze, witches and wizards scurrying along below like ants.

In the distance, the bright, cheery glow of Diagon Alley illuminated the night, so different from its twin that seemed to swallow the shadows.

His family would be down there somewhere, soaking in the atmosphere, enjoying the acts and festivities of Samhain, as they did every year.

They would not even think to start looking for him for another hour at least, not until they wished to go home and complete their own ritual. They were so used to him wandering off on his own, so used to him sneaking off to read or lose himself in an interesting store, or just get space.

His chest hurt at the thought.

He never should have left their side tonight. He never should have strayed so close to Knockturn Alley's entrance. He had known the dangers, he should have taken the precautions –

But he had just wanted to get away from it all, for even a little while. He needed to get away from the echoing, relentless jeers of his classmates; escape from the snide rumours and unforgiving stares that had tormented him every day at school.

He could not stand to be with his happy, happy family when he felt so tainted in comparison, when it felt wrong to be in their presence. Unworthy. Unwanted.

It...it would be better this way.

He stood, moving to the very edge of the roof so the tips of his shoes were overhanging the night sky.

This was it.

Finally.

He wondered if they would miss him, if they would even care.

It did not matter, though.

He took one last pause to gaze out over the beautiful, twisted world, before tipping forward.

He wanted to die.

Harry's eyes snapped open and he shot upwards, the image of the ground rushing to meet him melting into the plain white wall before him.

He groaned then, eyes screwing shut against the harsh light spilling through the room.

He brushed his hand against his hair, leaning forward over his legs. The soft, heavy blanket that had been draped over him dropped to his lap.

The fierce pounding in his head did not abate for a long minute, but as it slowly ebbed away into a dull ache, Harry released a deep sigh.

He cracked his eyes open, mindful of the light, and stared at the room he was in.

"...A hospital?" He murmured, voice horribly thick.

He sat up straighter, taking in the bland curtains, the open window, and the small white vase on the table next to him. A handful of colourful flowers sat there, on the verge of wilting.

"What the hell happened?"

Harry looked down at his covered legs, frowning thoughtfully.

"Summers," he remembered with a heavy blink of his eyes. He had been fighting Summers on the roof, that was the last thing he could recall – but then what had that dream been?

It had been so vivid, so real. Like Harry had actually been the one to –

His stomach clenched as more details from the dream solidified in his mind. He shuddered, feeling the lingering memory of hands running over him. Brutal, larger hands that knew nothing of kindness.

He shook his head, casting the dream from his mind, and moved to pull the blanket back. He froze, however, when he caught sight of his hand properly for the first time.

Harry's eyes widened as he stared at the pale limb, turning it over to see the same skin colour on the other side – a shade severely different from his normal warm brown. He held the other one up, chest heaving when he saw that it too was wrong.

He took an unsteady breath, dropping his arms and ripping the blanket off of him. His feet were the same, and the sight of them – not his own, what the fuck was going on – had him springing from the bed in panic.

Harry backed away, but he could not escape his own body. He knocked the side table so the vase wobbled, and then slammed into a wall, feeling something dig into his back.

He spun and realised that it was a door.

Harry shoved it open and rushed inside. He came to an abrupt stop when he was confronted with a wide, shining mirror, half-collapsing onto the basin and staring at the face looking back at him.

It was all wrong.

Too pale, too smooth, too young.

This was not his face.

His hair was more brown than black, and his eyes –

Gone were the familiar sharp green eyes he had once abhorred, then treasured because of their connection with his mother. In their place, two soft grey ones pierced him.

This was not his face.

Harry's hands tightened around the edges of the basin, and his magic crackled around him like a toxic cloud as his emotions erupted.

"What the fuck is going on?" He whispered, reaching up to touch a cheek that did not belong to him. He felt the smooth skin of a boy that had never shaved, felt the underdeveloped jawline, the straight, almost feminine nose.

He wrenched his hand away in disgust, because this was not him. There was no stubble, no glasses, no untameable hair and – he glanced up – no scar.

This was not Harry Potter staring back at him. This was...someone else.

He stepped away from the mirror, turning his back on the wrong reflection and closing his eyes. He pressed his hands to his face and tried to control his breathing.

Calm down. Calm down. Clearly something has gone wrong. This has to be another dream. There's no way this is possible. Think, Potter. There has to be an explanation.

Harry slowed his breathing, casting his mind back.

He had been on the case with Ron. He had found Summers, chased him to that roof. They had fought, he had stunned him, but Summers had had that runed necklace and attacked.

Idiot, he chided. I should have looked for that necklace. I should have known he would have something on him.

The sting of his failure was eclipsed by the sense of wrongness he felt when he remembered the bending metal under his hands.

The gutter dipping, the screech of metal, the rush of wind in his ears.

"I fell," he announced hollowly to the empty bathroom. The gutter had given out, and he had fallen.

But that did not explain why he was as he was. Why was he in a child's body? A boy that could hardly be more than fourteen?

Harry exited the bathroom hurriedly, took two steps, and promptly tripped over his own feet. He stumbled into the bed, a fierce scowl appearing on his face as he stared down at his – considerably shorter – legs.

He huffed, and jammed his elbow against the bed, glancing around the room once more. His eyes landed on the clipboard at the end of the bed, and he plucked it from its place, eyes devouring the information printed there.

Name: Nathan Ciro

D.O.B: 17 March, 1927

Underneath that was a list of simple observations – temperature, blood pressure, and more. Yet Harry's eyes had trouble moving from the date of birth.

The 17th of March, 1927.

1927.

He lowered the clipboard, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

1927...how is that even possible? He'd have to be – what? At least seventy-two by now?

Harry's mouth twisted. He did not like this at all.

He moved to stand upright, and as he did his foot brushed against something. He looked down and saw another file sitting on the floor. He scooped it up and started flicking through it, rapidly scanning the information printed there.

It was about him – or rather, the kid whose body he was somehow inhabiting.

The list of injuries he found had his eyebrows raising and the pit in his stomach growing.

Broken bones, torn tendons, a shattered wrist, swelling in the brain…it just went on.

The most prevalent though was the coma. Almost three-months, completely unresponsive.

Harry flipped to the last page, breezing over the short paragraph of hand-written notes and coming to a stop on one in particular.

Patient suffered from a severe fall, but showed signs of sexual assault…

Harry snapped the folder closed, dropping it beside the clipboard and taking a deep breath.

This could not be happening.

He pressed his hands on the soft mattress when the began shaking minutely, willing the tremors to stop. His mind was flooded with noise and he bit his lip, pushing through the confusion and fear and multitude of other emotions, and focussed on what was important.

One thing at a time.

He looked down at his – Nathan's – hands and clenched them repeatedly. They moved on his command, without a hint of pain or any delay.

He slowly started stretching, noting the lack of injuries. There was not even the slightest twinge. Whatever the healers had done, they had done it well. From even his brief examination he could tell that there was no lingering damage.

Harry looked back at the document spread atop his bed, his eyes inevitably landing on the damning date of birth once more.

He frowned, keeping a tight grip on his simmering panic. None of this made sense, but with the documents screaming these facts at him, what else could Harry think?

A young boy, assaulted, violated, and then suffering from a fall from a great height?

Harry did not believe in coincidences. This was too specific, there were too many connections being drawn for him to ignore.

He closed his eyes, thinking back on that strange dream he had had just before waking up. The feeling of hopelessness that stuck hard in his throat choked him, and he could remember all too well the phantom sensations running along his thighs and neck.

Harry shivered lightly and opened his eyes, staring once more down at his hands. His thoughts swirled darkly.

What were the chances that he would have a dream about a situation similar to what this boy had endured, and then immediately wake up in his body.

He traced the lines of his palm with his nail, studying the delicate fingers critically.

He had no earthly idea what had happened to him – if he was really here, or if this was just another intense and disturbing dream. All that he did know was that, as of right now, he had no choice but to play along with whatever was happening until he figured out how to fix this.

Whatever this was.

Harry's head snapped up when he heard the door to his room open. A young woman entered, worry etched into her pretty features.

Their eyes locked, and she froze just on the threshold.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

She gaped for a beat, then promptly dashed from the room, shouting for a healer.

He sighed deeply, taking a seat back on the bed, and forced himself to wait for her to return. Maybe then he could finally start getting some answers.