Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter either. It belongs to its creator J.K. Rowling and probably Warner Bros. too. I'm not too sure about that. This piece of literature is simply the work of a humble fan. I also credit Jim Butcher for various themes, subjects, or references that I may use.
Author Notes: This is a Harry Potter crossover with the Dresden Files the book series. All my knowledge of the Dresden Files comes from the books. I've never seen the TV series. For the timeline that will be stated later. Thanks to the folks at DLP for help with editing.
By: Water Mage
Harry jolted awake as if electricity was inserted directly down the length of his spine. His chest heaved and he gasped, clawing at his throat trying to suck in much needed air. He took in too much, and broke into a rapid coughing fit that sent him collapsing back onto the bed. Harry rubbed at his chest. The unconscious habit verified that his heart was beating so hard that it threatened to burst from his chest.
Where was he? He rubbed at his eyes winced at the light. He finally took in his surroundings. He was in a small room. Everything was white. From the crisp sheets that covered him to the ceiling and walls. There was no window, and muted light shined from a bulb in the ceiling. The smell was artificial, too clean, just like the white that covered everything in the room. He was in a hospital. How many times had he seen a similar setup in his life? The answer to that was too many times.
Okay, so he was in a hospital. That wasn't anything different. His head snapped around. Where was his wand? He looked around and saw no sight of it. Usually one of the staff at St. Mungos would keep patients wands near them, usually on a tabletop. But there wasn't a table in this room. Why in Merlin's name would he be in the hospital anyway? He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to recall his most recent, clearest memories. Slowly they came like molasses dripping from a bottle. The last thing he could remember was a raid on a dark magician's lair, Ron had been on his six, green light..and. Nothing. Did the Killing Curse hit him? No. He would be dead if that happened. But it wouldn't be the first time he escaped death's touch. Was Ron okay? So many questions buzzed around his mind.
He slung his feet over the bed, and registered for the first time what he was wearing. He was covered in plain, loose pants and a short sleeve top. Both were the same white as everything else in the room, and they screamed muggle. Harry stared at the clothes with mounting confusion. That sense in the back of his head that screamed at him to run, told him to duck— it was yelling at him now, and Harry felt a sinking dread fill his stomach, like a sack of heavy stones. Something was wrong.
Harry rose to his feet, and a startled curse left his lips as he tumbled over. He clutched the wall, supporting his weight against the unyielding surface. His body felt tired, weak, unresponsive. Something was definitely wrong. His body had been honed, muscles tightened, and reflexes sharpened under the three years spent undergoing Auror training. Now he felt as if he hadn't used his body in years…Oh no— No. No. Had he been in a coma?
He touched his hair, blanching as it was at least six inches longer than he remembered. He touched his face and felt the tiniest stubble. He didn't grow facial hair well, so that didn't mean anything, but his hair was a telling feature. Whatever happened, somehow, somewhere he had lost time. How much? He fell back onto the bed. A weary tiredness rolled over him, and he was washed under its power. He was asleep before he realized his eyes were closed.
Sound jarred his black sleep. When Harry awoke he didn't jolt awake this time. Harry didn't open his eyes either. He played sleep, tracking the sudden noise with his ears. His body tensed, muscles coiling ready to strike. He jumped up, and darted forward with his right fist cocked back. The move worked in the past when his body was at its peak. Instead of laying out the intruder, Harry's legs strained under the sudden weight completely throwing his balance off. He fell hard on the floor, groaning as his chest and shoulder throbbed. That sure hurt like hell.
He looked up as a shrill scream echoed off the tiny room's walls. He caught sight of a woman wearing a nurse uniform stare at him in amazement, and then she tore from the room screaming for a doctor. Wincing, Harry crawled back to the bed. His ego felt as bruised as his body. Ron would laugh himself stupid if Harry ever told him this story.
A trio of doctors rushed into the room not more than a minute after the nurse's departure. They swarmed around him and Harry instinctively backed up, glaring at them, not even listening to their onslaught of frenzied questions. Their words practically climbed on top of each other, and he couldn't pinpoint one sentence from another. Just as Harry was about to snap, the doctors noticed his agitation finally, and they stopped their rapid interrogation.
"Can you tell us your name?" asked one of the doctors. The name tag pinned at his shirt read Dr. Martin.
Harry opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his voice came out gruff and raspy. He swallowed and tried again. This time with better success. Although his voice still sounded as if he was just getting over a bad cold. Beggars can't be choosers.
"Harry James Potter," Harry slowly responded, watching the trio carefully.
Instead of the usual looks that often accompanied the sound of his name, they merely glanced at each other trading silent stares. Harry opened his mouth ready to demand answers, but once again the doctors interrupted him.
"Where do you believe you are?" asked Dr. Martin, his voice too calm, too soothing.
It made Harry itchy. His tone was deceptive. Not that he was lying. There were many types of deception. After all the shit in his life, he knew it well. Dr. Martin sounded like he had a secret. He was holding something back and Harry knew it.
Harry stared at him neutrally. "I don't know where I am. How about you answer some of my questions? Have I been in a coma?"
The doctors traded glances again. Finally Dr. Martin replied, "You haven't been in a coma, Mr. Potter. You're at Summerholm. This is a psychiatric hospital."
Harry laughed. "Finally went off the deep end did I? What's really going on?"
Dr. Martin shook his head, not smiling. "You have been with us since you were fifteen years old, Mr. Potter."
Constant vigilance, a deep voice boomed in his mind. Moody's favorite phrase, and the motto of the Aurors. Harry didn't react in any extreme manner to this news. He didn't bother to hide the confusion in his eyes, but he nodded to show he understood. Inside he was screaming, demanding to see his friends, cursing the trio of doctors before him. If this was some type of trick or trap, then he would wait, play the game, and then bide his time to attack.
"What happened to me?" He asked. His voice was shaky, not from fear but from the anger in his gut.
He hated when the bad guys played tricks. He swallowed down that building anger. Play the game, he told himself. Play the game.
Dr. Martin did smile then, apparently Harry had reacted favorably. "For the past five years you've been at Summerholm. After witnessing a traumatic event—"
"Sirius," whispered Harry softly.
It didn't take much for him to connect the dots. There was only one event traumatic event that happened when he was fifteen. Harry bowed his head sadly. Or what appeared to be sadness. What the doctors didn't see was his calculating expression or his mouth set in a deep frown, as he racked his thoughts for a situation that resembled this one. They definitely didn't cover this scenario in Auror training. But he always did do well improving.
"You and your godfather were mugged while coming from a movie. He was killed protecting you," Dr. Martin paused in his slow and soothing explanation. He gauged how Harry was taking it, and he nodded to his colleagues as they made notes on clipboards. "Your mind couldn't cope, and you retreated within yourself. "
Harry reacted how he thought they expected him to as he listened to them describe his condition of the last "five years". Apparently he retreated within himself, and created a fantasy world in his mind. In this world he was special. Harrison didn't exist there, but "Harry" did. Harry was a hero who despite thrown crippling circumstances nevertheless rose above and defeated all his foes. This increasing dissociation of identity, and mild schizophrenia left him for the past five years in an unresponsive state. The physicians knew of his fantasy because he would often have episodes, talking aloud, showcasing his alternate life. The more he listened the more Harry realized that whoever these people were, they knew a lot about him.
"It's a modern miracle that you've recovered out of nowhere," said the doctor to the right of Dr. Martin. His nametag proclaimed him Dr. Roberts.
Harry stared at three doctors. "You're all yanks?"
Dr. Martin nodded. "Summerholm is famous for its specialists who work with patients with conditions like yours. We're in Washington, DC. "
"What?" blurted Harry, the surprise wasn't faked this time.
"Two years into your condition," said Dr. Martin "You were moved here by your parents."
His mouth went dry and his world tilted on its axis. The entire room stared to spin. His stomach flipped upside down, and his heart almost burst as emotions exploded within. Harry closed his eyes fighting away the sensation of the spinning room. Joy, disbelief, hope, and caution all warred within his heart, one after another fighting for dominion over his thoughts. His parents. His parents.
"My parents…" said Harry slowly looking down, refusing to see their eyes. He didn't want to see their expressions. "They're alive?"
"They never died, Mr. Potter," replied Dr. Martin gently.
Harry wanted to hex them all. They deserved to rot in hell for making him feel this hope in heart. He didn't want to acknowledge the tiny sliver that blossomed inside his chest. A part of him wanted their story to be true. His parents. Alive? It was his greatest weakness, and his fondest wish. But so many things didn't make sense. He was not some twenty year old insane kid. He was twenty two, a wizard, an Auror, and the hero of the wizarding world.
Harry looked at the doctors after collecting himself. "Can I have some time alone please? I just need a minute to gather my thoughts."
"That is perfectly reasonable, Mr. Potter," conceded Dr. Martin.
The trio of doctors left leaving Harry alone with his cycling thoughts. This trick was going not how he expected. Where was the torture? They had the mind games down stat, but even those weren't going textbook.
"What the hell is going on?" whispered Harry to the quiet empty room.
He was torn in two. Should he continue playing along and see what happens? Or option two. When they walked through that door should he drop the act and show them what an Auror really is?
This story is indeed a crossover with Jim Butcher's, "The Dresden Files" series, and inspiried by "Far Beyond Normal" by Jakl. This story will be set in Dresden universe, and it will not be absolutely necessary to have read the books beforehand. The story will be easy to follow. The story isn't just Harry in a mental hospital. Its just the beginning. He'll be getting out in chapter three, and chapters will be longer once his hospital stay ends. As far as Harry being able to do magic... what kind of Harry Potter story would this be if Harry was non-magical? A boring one. He'll be getting his magic alright.