He's gotta be fresh from the fight Characters: Harry Potter (Narrative) Setting: A hospital in London Content: SFW minus some swearing Summary: Harry’s been a bit unconcious out of touch
Harry had slept in enough places, throughout his comparatively short life, that he was quite certain he could sleep just about anywhere. In fact, people often commented on it. He still hadn’t quite lived down the time he had dozed off at the big table in the Weasleys’ kitchen, so pleasantly warm with mulled cider and Molly’s deliciously roasted turkey and flaming pudding that he had been completely unable to keep his eyes open.
The only advantage to this, other than being able to catch up on sleep whenever he had a quiet moment, was that he always knew where he was upon waking, used to doing so on sofas, desks and occasionally, in a real pinch, on the ground. It also helped that, on waking up, he could sense his surroundings well enough to know almost instantly whether it was safe to stay where he was - comfortably at home, perhaps, in the flat he shared with Ron - or not, in which case he would leap up, fully awake, his wand out and ready to face some unknown danger.
This time, however, he knew even before opening his eyes that he was somewhere unfamiliar, but found himself utterly incapable of doing anything about it. His head felt as heavy as a boulder, a particularly agonising boulder, his mind clouded with pain and confusion. Someone had their hands on his shoulders and was tugging at him - panicked, he tried to lift an arm, to reach for his wand, to push them away, but the attempt was met with a rush of pain that began with a stab to his elbow and blossomed out to cover his entire left side. He cried out, a grunting, odd noise that was nothing like his own voice, and the hands on his shoulders came off, at once.
He opened his eyes just in time to see the blurry image of a young woman in a knee-length blue dress and a stiff white apron and cap, stepping back from him in surprise. Apparently she had just been trying to fluff up his pillows.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, and he thought he could just make out a smile on her face. “I should fetch Doctor Turner.”
“Wait,” he groaned, while his memory did its best to catch up with his senses. It was going to be a terrible cliche, but... “Wher - where am I?” He turned his head to look around; the movement jarred his arm only slightly but it sent off another lance of pain, so he thought better of it. It was too blurry, in any case, to really see anything. What on earth had happened to his glasses?
“In the hospital,” the woman said, much more cheerfully than this news warranted. “You’ve had a nasty knock on the head, among other things - you’ve been asleep three days or so, now.”
Three days was not the longest stretch of time Harry had ever been unconscious, but it still wasn’t good to hear. Without even realising he was doing it, he glanced over to the side with as little movement as possible, expecting to see Ginny, Ron, or Hermione there, or all three, or even perhaps Molly or Arthur. The last time he’d woken up in hospital, after a training exercise that had ended badly, he’d woken up to find Percy holding Ron’s place. That had been rather less than enjoyable. But it was still better than seeing no one, which was who was there now. Suddenly he felt guilty for expecting anyone there at all.
“T’appened?” he murmered, trying to remember, but everything after he had left the flat that morning - or, now he thought about it, three or four mornings ago - was a blank. He’d thought the bacon seemed iffy, but from the pain he doubted it was food poisoning.
“Do you have a name, sir?” the girl asked him, ignoring his question as she pulled out a clipboard from somewhere. He stared at her, as best he could. How did she not recognise him? He hoped he wasn’t hideously disfigured, which was the only explanation he could come up with at the moment. “We’ve been calling you John,” she continued, “but honestly there’s about three dozen Johns in here at the moment. If you tell me what it is I can jot it down here for you.”
“Harry,” he said, half incredulous, half wary. “... Potter.”
She only nodded and scribbled it down, apparently unfazed. Slowly, dimly, Harry realised she must be a Muggle. No witch or wizard he had ever met had failed to recognise the name, even those rare people who didn’t know him immediately on sight. And that meant... oh help, I’m in a MUGGLE hospital.
“And do you have any family we might get in touch with?” the girl asked, still as brisk as ever.
“No,” he said, without thinking. Then added: “Yes... no. I mean, I do have family, but... they... don’t have a telephone,” he finished, lamely. He knew there were protocols for this sort of situation, wizard/Muggle emergency relations, and so forth, but he was damned if he could remember any of it now, with his head still pounding, pain up and down his side and a memory that seemed to be just as clouded as his vision.
To his surprise, the girl seemed to accept this explanation without any sign of confusion at this backwardness. “Well, we could send a telegram,” she said, reasonably. “Or send a runner, if you live nearby, to take the message.”
He looked back at her blankly.
A telegram?
“Can I have my glasses?” he asked, to avoid the question altogether.
“Of course,” the girl said, reaching to one side. “There’s only glass in one side, I’m afraid. The other was quite broken. You get yourself settled Mr Potter, and I shall fetch Doctor.”
It wasn’t much easier to see with only one eye able to focus, but it gave Harry a limited view of the room he was in. It was certainly a hospital, no doubt about that, but it was not St Mungos, nor was it quite like any Muggle hospital he had ever seen, in real life, anyway. It looked rather more like the sort of place featured in the violent war films Dudley liked to watch when they were teenagers, though he would usually fast forward through the hospital scenes to the bits where people shot each other or got blown up. Iron bedsteads, painted white but chipped away, woollen blankets with neat corners. The walls were whitewashed but the windows were covered by thick shutters, the only light coming from dim, uncovered bulbs.
What had he done after leaving the flat? He’d gone to work, probably... done some paperwork, since there weren’t any active cases... there was something important that was meant to happen that day... if only he could recall what that was.
A man wearing spectacles with a very severe parting in his hair appeared at Harry’s side, frowning. He consulted the clipboard. “And how are we feeling today, sir?” he asked, in a monotone that suggested he had little actual interest in the answer.
“Awful,” Harry said truthfully. “My arm...”
“Broken in three places,” was the reply. “You were on the edge of the hit, fortunately, but it must have thrown you several yards. I suspect some damage to the kneecap, and almost certainly a concussion.”
Harry thought he had never wished to see Madam Pomfrey quite so hard. A couple wand waves was all it would take, and while St Mungos Healers were all well and good, Pomfrey was the best. Hermione was the only other person he really trusted to poke their wand at him.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
The man raised his eyebrows over the rims of his spectacles. “How do you imagine you got here?” he asked.
“I don’t remember,” Harry replied.
The man frowned and lifted his pen - an old fashioned looking fountain pen, of all things. “How old are you, my boy?”
Harry had to think about it for a second. “Twenty,” he said eventually. Unless he’d gone and slept right through July.
“And who is currently Prime Minister?”
This took a slightly longer hesitation. “Er.. Tony Blair?”
The doctor did not seem at all pleased with this answer. “What year is it, young man?”
“Two thousand one.” He was fairly confident about that one.
“I see.” The doctor made a few notes, frowning all the time. “It seems you may have hit your head in the blast harder than I thought. Unless you have in fact travelled here from the future. Aha. Ha.” His laugh was not quite a laugh at all, more like an admittance that he had made an attempt at humour.
“Blast?” Harry’s head was swimming. It really did hurt, but he really didn’t think he could be that confused. “What blast?”
“The Jerries let a few loose on the South End last night. You’ve done quite well, under the circumstances.”
All right, Harry had to admit to himself, as the Doctor began to prod agonisingly at his arm and his knee, which he was just realising hurt almost as badly, maybe he was that confused. If only he had his wand - only he wasn’t even wearing his own clothes, but itchy cotton pyjamas with the left sleeve rolled up to allow for a metal-and-wood splint which might as well have been a medieval torture device.
With a sinking feeling he wondered if this ‘blast’, whatever it was, had hurt anyone else. Had Ron been with him when they were - he assumed - attacked? He didn’t remember meeting Ginny, but that was just as likely. What if they were lying injured somewhere, waiting for him to help them? What if they were all dead?
“Lucky bastard.”
“Huh?” He looked around, wincing. The Doctor had moved away, to stare just as impartially at the next patient, and it was the man in the bed next to him who was speaking. He was wearing a dark green jacket over his pyjamas, and seemed to be sitting oddly. Harry squinted, trying to see properly with his one lens, and then felt a rush of horror as he realised the man didn’t have any legs.
“Broken arm’s a bloody gift, boy. Start moaning about it and I’ll break your teeth in.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Harry said, truthfully. After all, it might have hurt like all hell, but it was nothing compared to the Cruciatus Curse. That was kind of the point. He’d also died once, had his blood used as part of a ritual sacrifice, and been speared in the leg by a giant spider. He was more worried about how he was going to get out of here without any help, or even any magic.
“I should hope not. There’s a war on, you know. People dying every minute. Be glad you still got both your arms.” The man reached into a pocket of his jacket, drew out a cigarette and lighter, and began to smoke. “You really don’t know what year it is?”
Harry had to admit that he did not.
“1941, Spaceman. Year of the goddam fuckin’ apocolypse as far as I’m concerned.”
Harry did not bother protesting that he was not from outer space, and that this would make even less sense than time travel. 1941. It was 1941 and he was alone, with no wand, no friends, no clothes, no idea where he was - when he was - or how he had got here, and no way of even sitting up, let alone running the hell away.
Yes, it was true that horrible shit did tend to happen to him, but really, he thought, closing his eyes against the glow of the bulb above the bed, this was taking it all a bit far.