He had a Severe Quidditch Accident.
The memory hit Harry like a rogue Bludger to the chest. The collision. The long, terrifying drop from the sky. The darkness that followed. Madam Pomfrey’s voice, echoing from somewhere far away, talking about a deep, two-week coma.
Harry stared at his trembling hands. They were smooth, devoid of the small ink stains and parchment calluses he had accumulated over three years in the past.
"No," Harry whispered, his voice cracking, sounding terribly young and terribly hollow in the quiet room. "No, please."
He scrambled out of the bed, his weak legs buckling beneath him. He caught himself on the edge of the mattress, tears finally spilling over his eyelashes, hot and furious.
Three years of shared secrets. Three years of watching a monster learn how to be human. Three years of falling entirely, irrevocably in love in that slow, burning pace.
Was it all just a cruel trick of a damaged brain? A beautiful, elaborate lie spun by his subconscious while his body fought to survive a stupid school game?
He had left Tom there. Or worse,
Tom had never existed at all, not like that.
Harry pressed his forehead against the cold stone floor, the silence of the 1990s suffocating him, mourning a life, a boy, and a love that might have only ever belonged to a dream.
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