Soon
enough, Madame Pomfrey came back in to chivvy Ron and Hermione away. Hermione promised they’d both come back after
dinner with all the homework Harry missed.
Ron merely rolled his eyes in disgust, then promised that he would be
bringing him some dessert. As Madame
Pomfrey waved a wand over him, apparently to check to see if he was still breathing,
Harry watched his two best friends walk out of the hospital wing.
“Give
him his homework?” said Ron. “Hermione,
don’t you know that the best part about being ill is that you don’t have to do
homework?”
“Honestly,
why would one be at school if not to study?” asked Hermione rhetorically.
Ron
looked at her in shock as they went through the wide oak doors that opened onto
one of Hogwarts’ many corridors. The
last thing Harry heard was Ron saying, “It’s like you’re another species or
something, you are.”
After
telling Harry that he was fine but would have to spend another night in
hospital, Madam Pomfrey left Harry to settle back down on his bed. Harry stared at the hospital wing’s ceiling
and brooded. He was not, despite what he
may have thought, a seventeen-year old stuck in a thirteen year old boy’s
body. He knew this because he simply
could not imagine himself doing what the older Harry Potter had done. Some of the most memorable acts of the older
Harry Potter, beyond the battles and derring-do, was dating and kissing girls.
Harry
imagined kissing Ginny Weasley, both the twelve-year old girl as she was now,
and the sixteen year old girl she would grow into, and blushed scarlet. He and Ginny seemed to have spent most of his
sixth year snogging in isolated corners of the castle. He thought of Cho Chang, a very pretty girl
who was one year old than him and was in Ravenclaw House. The older Harry Potter had gone out on a few
dates with her and had even had his first kiss from her. Harry blushed even hotter at the memory.
So, in
conclusion, and anyway, and let’s ignore kissing girls and stop it, Harry very
well may be the reincarnation of Harry Potter, but he was not Harry Potter.
Harry
briefly considered asking Madame Pomfrey to come back and give him a potion for
the headache that just rampaged through his mind.
Once
recovered a bit, Harry resumed his brooding.
In other words, he was living his life over again from its very
beginning. Indeed, it was possible that
the world was playing out its history all over again from its beginning. Both Rand al’Thor and Lews Therin Telamon
believed that time was a wheel, replaying its events over and over again until
time ended. Rand believed that he was
living in the Third Age and was the reincarnation of Lews Therin, while Lews
Therin believed he was in the Second Age and believed that he was some unknown
person’s reincarnation. Both had been
told, and both believed, that they would have to live their lives over again
when their respective Ages came around again.
Harry
had no idea if this was true or not. It
was all a bit too mystical for him. Did
all of this happen before and was happening again? Now, however, Harry frowned in
consternation. Was his life playing out
exactly the same? Or was something
different?
Desperately,
he searched through memories that he knew to be his own and compared them to
the life of that other Harry Potter.
This was particularly difficult, as all that he could think of when he
tried to remember his life was the ice cream he’d had at Florian Fortescu’s Ice
Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley just a few days ago, or the first time he’d
ridden a broom two years back. Beyond
unpleasant memories of Professor Snape, the potions teacher and Harry’s least
favorite person, he could not remember much of his time in class. Well, there was that one time that Gilderoy
Lockhart, the second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had released
Cornish pixies in the classroom and they’d attacked everyone. That was one of those funnier in hindsight
moments older people keep on talking about.
When he
thought to compare the other Harry Potter’s life, what stuck out were the big
events: battles at the Ministry of Magic, a fight with a dragon, a duel with
Voldemort, another fight with a dragon, another fight with Voldemort—this time
in midair, and so on. All the
life-threatening things that he’d done in the past, and would apparently do in
the future. That, and of course, kissing
girls. Harry far preferred the memories
of kissing girls, even if it made him feel feverish.
It was
not until he was thinking of nothing in particular, possibly having to do with
Quidditch, that his eyes fell upon his clothes.
Ron had brought him a change in clothing, and Hermione had thoughtfully
folded them into a neat pile on a chair next to the bed. On top of the black school robes lay a wooly
jumper which Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him last Christmas. Every Christmas since his first year, Mrs.
Weasley had knitted him a Weasley family jumper. He had already been having a wonderful year,
as he no longer had to live with the Dursleys and had found friends for the
first time in his life. Yet with that
first Weasley family jumper, he felt like he truly belonged. That, in a way, he was loved.
Though
he had outgrown it, he still kept the jumper in the bottom of his school
trunk. Mrs. Weasley, though she had only
seen him for a few moments, had remembered Harry’s green eyes and had knitted
that first jumper in green, with a large letter H at its center. This showed how truly generous in her love
Mrs. Weasley was, and the kind of mother that Harry always wished he had, and
always envied Ron for having—not that he would ever tell Ron that. It would way too embarrassing.
His
green jumper. He knew it as well as he
knew the feel of his Nimbus 2000 flying broomstick that he used to play
Quidditch. It was green. So why did he think, for a brief moment, that
it was black? A black jumper . . . black
jumper . . . .
It came
to him, then. That other Harry Potter:
his first Weasley family jumper had been black, instead of green. In the letter that accompanied the jumper,
Mrs. Weasley explained that it was to match his black hair. To relieve it, there had been a red letter H
at the center, and red trimming. The
other Harry had loved it as much as he loved his green jumper.
So,
there was the difference. It was
unlikely to be the only difference in the lives of the two Harry Potters, but
it was the first that he noticed.
However, despite the different colored jumper, the large events of his
first and second years at Hogwarts had not changed. Both had faced Lord Voldemort before the
Mirror of Erised for possession of the Philosopher’s Stone. Both killed the basilisk that had been
terrorizing Hogwarts during their second year in order to save Ginny Weasley
from possession by the ghostly memory of Tom Riddle, the Hogwarts schoolboy who
would grow up to be Lord Voldemort but who had somehow been able to place a
copy of himself in his old school diary.
Harry
sat up with a start. It wasn’t
‘somehow’; Harry knew exactly how Voldemort had left been a copy of himself in
his diary when he was a schoolboy at Hogwarts.
It was because of this method that the other Harry Potter had walked
willingly to his death.
Harry
gave a low groan that mixed frustration and misery. He had far too much on his plate in the
immediate future to have to deal with this Voldemort nonsense. Quidditch season was coming up. He was too busy to plan to die.
enough, Madame Pomfrey came back in to chivvy Ron and Hermione away. Hermione promised they’d both come back after
dinner with all the homework Harry missed.
Ron merely rolled his eyes in disgust, then promised that he would be
bringing him some dessert. As Madame
Pomfrey waved a wand over him, apparently to check to see if he was still breathing,
Harry watched his two best friends walk out of the hospital wing.
“Give
him his homework?” said Ron. “Hermione,
don’t you know that the best part about being ill is that you don’t have to do
homework?”
“Honestly,
why would one be at school if not to study?” asked Hermione rhetorically.
Ron
looked at her in shock as they went through the wide oak doors that opened onto
one of Hogwarts’ many corridors. The
last thing Harry heard was Ron saying, “It’s like you’re another species or
something, you are.”
After
telling Harry that he was fine but would have to spend another night in
hospital, Madam Pomfrey left Harry to settle back down on his bed. Harry stared at the hospital wing’s ceiling
and brooded. He was not, despite what he
may have thought, a seventeen-year old stuck in a thirteen year old boy’s
body. He knew this because he simply
could not imagine himself doing what the older Harry Potter had done. Some of the most memorable acts of the older
Harry Potter, beyond the battles and derring-do, was dating and kissing girls.
Harry
imagined kissing Ginny Weasley, both the twelve-year old girl as she was now,
and the sixteen year old girl she would grow into, and blushed scarlet. He and Ginny seemed to have spent most of his
sixth year snogging in isolated corners of the castle. He thought of Cho Chang, a very pretty girl
who was one year old than him and was in Ravenclaw House. The older Harry Potter had gone out on a few
dates with her and had even had his first kiss from her. Harry blushed even hotter at the memory.
So, in
conclusion, and anyway, and let’s ignore kissing girls and stop it, Harry very
well may be the reincarnation of Harry Potter, but he was not Harry Potter.
Harry
briefly considered asking Madame Pomfrey to come back and give him a potion for
the headache that just rampaged through his mind.
Once
recovered a bit, Harry resumed his brooding.
In other words, he was living his life over again from its very
beginning. Indeed, it was possible that
the world was playing out its history all over again from its beginning. Both Rand al’Thor and Lews Therin Telamon
believed that time was a wheel, replaying its events over and over again until
time ended. Rand believed that he was
living in the Third Age and was the reincarnation of Lews Therin, while Lews
Therin believed he was in the Second Age and believed that he was some unknown
person’s reincarnation. Both had been
told, and both believed, that they would have to live their lives over again
when their respective Ages came around again.
Harry
had no idea if this was true or not. It
was all a bit too mystical for him. Did
all of this happen before and was happening again? Now, however, Harry frowned in
consternation. Was his life playing out
exactly the same? Or was something
different?
Desperately,
he searched through memories that he knew to be his own and compared them to
the life of that other Harry Potter.
This was particularly difficult, as all that he could think of when he
tried to remember his life was the ice cream he’d had at Florian Fortescu’s Ice
Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley just a few days ago, or the first time he’d
ridden a broom two years back. Beyond
unpleasant memories of Professor Snape, the potions teacher and Harry’s least
favorite person, he could not remember much of his time in class. Well, there was that one time that Gilderoy
Lockhart, the second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had released
Cornish pixies in the classroom and they’d attacked everyone. That was one of those funnier in hindsight
moments older people keep on talking about.
When he
thought to compare the other Harry Potter’s life, what stuck out were the big
events: battles at the Ministry of Magic, a fight with a dragon, a duel with
Voldemort, another fight with a dragon, another fight with Voldemort—this time
in midair, and so on. All the
life-threatening things that he’d done in the past, and would apparently do in
the future. That, and of course, kissing
girls. Harry far preferred the memories
of kissing girls, even if it made him feel feverish.
It was
not until he was thinking of nothing in particular, possibly having to do with
Quidditch, that his eyes fell upon his clothes.
Ron had brought him a change in clothing, and Hermione had thoughtfully
folded them into a neat pile on a chair next to the bed. On top of the black school robes lay a wooly
jumper which Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him last Christmas. Every Christmas since his first year, Mrs.
Weasley had knitted him a Weasley family jumper. He had already been having a wonderful year,
as he no longer had to live with the Dursleys and had found friends for the
first time in his life. Yet with that
first Weasley family jumper, he felt like he truly belonged. That, in a way, he was loved.
Though
he had outgrown it, he still kept the jumper in the bottom of his school
trunk. Mrs. Weasley, though she had only
seen him for a few moments, had remembered Harry’s green eyes and had knitted
that first jumper in green, with a large letter H at its center. This showed how truly generous in her love
Mrs. Weasley was, and the kind of mother that Harry always wished he had, and
always envied Ron for having—not that he would ever tell Ron that. It would way too embarrassing.
His
green jumper. He knew it as well as he
knew the feel of his Nimbus 2000 flying broomstick that he used to play
Quidditch. It was green. So why did he think, for a brief moment, that
it was black? A black jumper . . . black
jumper . . . .
It came
to him, then. That other Harry Potter:
his first Weasley family jumper had been black, instead of green. In the letter that accompanied the jumper,
Mrs. Weasley explained that it was to match his black hair. To relieve it, there had been a red letter H
at the center, and red trimming. The
other Harry had loved it as much as he loved his green jumper.
So,
there was the difference. It was
unlikely to be the only difference in the lives of the two Harry Potters, but
it was the first that he noticed.
However, despite the different colored jumper, the large events of his
first and second years at Hogwarts had not changed. Both had faced Lord Voldemort before the
Mirror of Erised for possession of the Philosopher’s Stone. Both killed the basilisk that had been
terrorizing Hogwarts during their second year in order to save Ginny Weasley
from possession by the ghostly memory of Tom Riddle, the Hogwarts schoolboy who
would grow up to be Lord Voldemort but who had somehow been able to place a
copy of himself in his old school diary.
Harry
sat up with a start. It wasn’t
‘somehow’; Harry knew exactly how Voldemort had left been a copy of himself in
his diary when he was a schoolboy at Hogwarts.
It was because of this method that the other Harry Potter had walked
willingly to his death.
Harry
gave a low groan that mixed frustration and misery. He had far too much on his plate in the
immediate future to have to deal with this Voldemort nonsense. Quidditch season was coming up. He was too busy to plan to die.