Summary: Harry Potter awakes from a coma into a new world built on foundations of lies and deceit. What happened to him? And why have his friends and family turned on him?
Harry Potter may have won The War, but can he win his life back?
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Alternate Universe, Post-DH/AB
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2014.08.26
Updated: 2015.10.07
Comatose by RwriterR
Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Comatose
Author's Notes: Harry Potter stopped running and wiped sweat from his filthy brow, his heavy breathing masking the loud thumps of his rapidly beating heart. He had gotten this far. They had all gotten this far. He bent low, rested his hands on his knees and leant against a tree somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. Taking a deep breath he could smell the ashes from the castle that burned in the distance. The cacophony of screams and war cries that had assaulted his hears were muffled by the thick walls of trees that surrounded him. It was eerily quiet. The Battle of Hogwarts was drawing to a close after two days of outright warfare, with hundreds of deaths on both sides. But Harry could end it now. He had destroyed all of the Horcruxes, with the help of Ron, Hermione and Neville. It was only Voldemort left. And he knew where to find him.
A distant explosion brought Harry back to his senses. He ploughed onward, pushing his way through low swinging branches, twigs cracking underfoot. Harry kept his head steady, his eyes already well adjusted to the darkness of the night, confident he was heading in the right direction. It was a further ten minutes of slow and steady progress before he finally reached his destination, a large clearing, surrounded by the stumps of felled trees, illuminated by moonlight. Harry crouched low, suddenly wishing he had his invisibility cloak to allow him to remain unseen, but he had given it to Sirius not half an hour earlier. Cursing under his shaky breath he crept forward, staying amongst the shadows, trying to locate his enemy. Harry stalked around the circular clearing until he saw him, standing tall, pale and rigid; his snake like face enshrouded in shadow. Two cloaked figures stood either side, bruised and bloodied.
"We have sustained many losses my Lord," said one of the cloaked men, "but they have sustained more. If we maintain the assault, p-perhaps with your a-assistance, we will finally end this."
Voldemort shook his head, his cold high-pitched voice carrying through the clearing. "Alas Rookwood, I cannot. They know my secret. It is too risky. You will have to continue alone."
"B-but, my Lord."
"Enough! You fight against school children, blood traitors and Mudbloods, some of which are not even of age. Surely you cannot fail at this also? You are a pathetic excuse for a wizard, Rookwood. Be gone, both of you. Do not return unless you bring news of victory or have found the boy."
With that, the two men rushed away into the shadows, their battle-tattered cloaks billowing behind them.
Harry took a deep breath. It was now or never. This was his chance to avenge his parents, Lupin, Tonks, Mad-eye Moody, Fred and the countless others that had died fighting this monster and his followers. Rising up to his full height, his wand held tightly in his right hand, he walked forward into the clearing.
Voldemort turned, his red eyes going wide as he saw his adversary, who had eluded him throughout the entire battle, enshrined in moonlight before him.
"Harry Potter. Finally you have decided to face me, and meet your fate."
Harry stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Voldemort's wand, waiting for the smallest movement, ready to strike.
"You have disappointed me Harry," Voldemort continued. "You have allowed hundreds of men, women and children to die needlessly for you. And for what? You are not The Chosen One, Harry Potter. You are not special. You will die, just like your parents did, at my feet.
Both men waved their wands, shouting simultaneously: "Avada Kedavra!" "Expelliarmus!"
The spells collided with an explosion, the force of which sent Voldemort and Harry flying through the air. A rush of energy blasted through the clearing leaving snapped twigs and branches in its wake. The air around them and the ground beneath them trembled. Then there was silence. All went black.
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In a spotless, bright white room Dr Browne waved his wand over his patient and shook his head. The charts showed exactly the same results. A resting heartbeat of 70 bpm, a core body temperature of 37 degrees Celsius and normal brain activity. Sighing, he extracted his quill from the pocket of his white lab overcoat, dipped it in the nearby inkwell on his desk and recorded the results with an untidy scrawl. Dr Browne liked his job. He had always wanted to be a Healer, ever since he received his Hogwarts letter on his eleventh birthday. But there were days when it was incredibly dull and frustrating. This was one of those days. Sighing again he sat at his desk and organised and filed his results, the steady raspy breathing of his patient the only sound in the room other than the rustling of paper.
Some five minutes later the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted him from his tidying. Glancing through the glass window that showed the corridor outside, he saw a well-dressed, white, middle aged man striding importantly towards the door of the room. Dr Browne opened the door before the man could knock.
"Good morning Minister. What can I do for you?"
"Browne," The Minister for Magic greeted imperiously. "Just checking up on our favourite patient. Any progress?"
"I'm afraid not Minister. The charts are all giving the same readings of body function and cognitive activity."
The Minister nodded, although he didn't seem to be listening, his eyes on the patient.
"Okay Browne. Keep up those reports, will you?"
"Yes sir."
"Good."
Without a goodbye the Minister strode out of the room and out into the corridor, his expensive designer cloak billowing behind him. Every week the Minister of Magic strode into Browne’s hospital ward, showered in his self-importance, asking him the same question, and every week Browne had the exact same answer. What troubled Browne was the fact that the Minister didn't seem concerned by the lack of progress. He didn't seem concerned about the patient at all; in fact, yet every week the Minister came all the same.
Shrugging to himself, he made to sit down at his desk, however something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned swiftly to face his patient. Had he moved? With a wave of his wand a series of charts appeared before him. Shaking his head, Browne made the charts disappear. The stats were the same. It must have been a trick of the light. What was he thinking? Of course the patient hadn't moved. Harry Potter hadn't moved for the last three years.
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