Harry wasn't frightened by the tugging sensation. He'd been feeling it all year, especially after the Dementor attacks. So he sat quietly in the infirmary bed and watched his dad and Dumbledore argue. His father's dark brows drew together every time he said the name 'Black.'

Then a strange shift had happened, and he was falling, slipping. When he opened his eyes again, he couldn't get comfortable in his own skin. Everything in the infirmary seemed...off. And when he tried to explain what had happened, it left everyone confused. The headmaster's frown became particularly pronounced whenever he mentioned his dad.

"Do you mean to say," Dumbledore said carefully, "that you saw James Potter in this room?"

"What?" Harry said. Despite the disorientation he felt, a familiar sense of irritation and fear rose in him. He put up a front of nonchalance to push the feelings away. "Course not. He's been dead ages. Bit difficult to have a conversation with a dead bloke." He heard a gasp, and looked over to see Hermione's round eyes on him. Perhaps he'd been a little too nonchalant. He tried to ease the awkwardness. "Well, except for the magical portraits," he amended. "And the ghosts..."

Snape snorted impatiently. "But you just said-"

"I said I was watching you argue with Professor Dumbledore."

"You said," prodded Dumbledore, "that you saw me arguing with your dad."

"Well, yeah," said Harry, shrugging.

Silence settled into the room as the two men stared at Harry. Then Dumbledore's head slowly swiveled to appraise Snape from head to toe.

"What?" asked Snape irritably.

"Just...considering the possibilities," murmured Dumbledore. "Harry, would you kindly point to your father for me?"

Harry wondered if this was some sort of mental alertness test, but obediently pointed at Snape. Snape stared at the finger as though it were a cobra coiled to strike.

"I see," said Dumbledore. "And how long has he been your father?"

Harry dropped his hand and considered. "Well, he married my mum when I was just two, so, er...eleven...almost twelve years."

Suddenly, Snape was inches from his face, spittle flying. "Another prank from Black and that werewolf! Did the three of you put your thick heads together and finally figure it out? Tell me!"

Facing the brunt of this anger was like standing in the blast of a furnace. Harry heard Dumbledore call Snape's name, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from his dad's face. The only time he'd ever seen those black eyes so full of rage and suffering was when Lucius Malfoy had visited and, in his Slytherin way, humiliated his mother by slyly mocking her condition. Even then, he had vented his rage on the furniture, after Malfoy left.

Dumbledore pulled Snape away, his wrinkled hand firm on the other man's shoulder. Snape never took his eyes off Harry as the headmaster spoke to him.

Harry could only hear his heart pounding in his ears. His father had been livid with him before, but never with this intensity. What had he done?

Dumbledore had led him to his office and explained to him what happened.

It was only then that his fear of his father's anger faded. It was replaced with a horrible sinking weight in his chest.

"But my dad..." Harry said. "He's still my dad, right?"

Snape, who had been pacing across Dumbledore's office the entire time, stopped and turned toward Harry, scowling.

"In this world," said Dumbledore softly, "Professor Snape only had the opportunity to teach you, not raise you."

"You mean," said Harry, tears stinging his eyes, "I take care of my mum all by myself?"

Snape's eyes slid from Harry and he sat down heavily in a chair.

Dumbledore's long beard swayed gently as he shook his head. "Other than yourself, Voldemort did not leave any survivors the night he visited Godric's Hollow. But if you left your mother safe in your own world, you will see her again when you return."

His words rang against Harry's ears with a hollow clang. He was alone. He looked pleadingly at his dad...who wasn't his dad...and saw a strange, haunted hunger in his eyes. He turned back toward Dumbledore. "My mum...when can I see her again?" he asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I can only ask that you be patient, and do your best to quietly adjust to life here as we search for a way back."

Harry nodded. Adjust...to Harry Potter's life. The name sounded strange to him. He stood, hardly feeling his legs. "May I go now, Sir?"

Dumbledore waved his assent, then paused. "I suppose I should ask...what House were you sorted into?"

Harry glanced at Snape. This had been a minor point of friction between them for years. He remembered the hurt he'd seen in his father's eyes when he'd learned that Harry had chosen his mum's House over his. But that made no difference here, he reminded himself. The man sitting near him wasn't his father. "Gryffindor," he mumbled.

"Ah. Then finding your way back to your room shouldn't be a problem. Let us hope that finding your way back home will prove as easy." And, whispering the Gryffindor password in his ear, Dumbledore dismissed him.

Harry turned and stumbled his way back to Gryffindor tower. Down the corridors, and then in the common room, he saw things both familiar and unfamiliar. Little details became foreign to him, like a portrait in a slightly different place, or an odd statue that hadn't been there before. The more differences he saw, the less he wanted to think about them, and what they meant for his life now.

Within minutes he was curled in his bed, shivering. As sleep overcame him, his mind clutched at memories of strong hands, a lilting voice, and warm laughter, in a place far away from there.