Enough to not return again

I've had this gathering dust for a while, and decided that, instead of being a side story, it works better as a second story to the trilogy. There's the tiniest use of one (1) swear ["bollocks"] in this story, which I personally don't see as a swear word but if you do you have been warned. This will be the only further addition to the Pushed too far 'verse. I own neither characters nor setting.

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Harry lay on the floor, not wanting to open his eyes. Opening his eyes meant another day of torture. Because it was, torture. The wizarding world was so different than what it'd first seemed, and just as hateful as life in Privet Drive.

He didn't remember returning to what amounted to 'his' room from the Astronomy Tower. But he must have: why else would he be asleep instead of startling awake to the shrill burr of McGonagall, taking points for being out of bed and out of bounds. Even though he was perfectly permitted to be in the Astronomy Tower outside of lessons, in case he wanted to do self-study (he knew this the same way he knew every rule, because knowing the rules was the only way he could get even part of a respite).

He turned on his side, keeping his eyes shut. It was a Monday: his first lesson was a free, he could take some time before returning to his harsh reality. Harry reached for his blanket, but his hands found only nothingness. Now he thought about it too, his pillow was gone as well.

Alert in an instant, Harry kept himself relaxed, his eyes shut: it would do no good to let whoever had found him to know he was awake. As soon as he was free, he would salvage what he could from the classroom before finding a new one. It was a shame. He liked this classroom: it had seats with cushions and the door locked from the inside.

"Oh Harry," someone said. He tensed involuntarily at the sound, but it wasn't said with the usual hatred. Fright was replaced by confusion. Not one person in Hogwarts had been sympathetic towards him, not since the Sorting Hat had placed him in Slytherin. In fact, the voice almost sounded... sad? Yes, but not entirely; it was also... what? Happy? Who was happy to see him?

A hand touched his forehead, brushing his hair back from his face, and even as he was up and moving back, he was silently screaming in confusion. Because the touch was nothing like he'd ever felt before. Nothing he could remember.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and he distractedly noticed he wasn't in the classroom like he'd thought, but instead in a misty white place, with no defining features. The person who'd spoken was a woman, her hair an intense ruby-red that reminded him of spilled wine the way it tumbled down past her shoulders. She was short, only a head taller than him, and her pale face was creased in a bittersweet smile.

He met her eyes, and staggered back until his back was pressed to a wall, and even then kept pushing. Because the woman's eyes weren't as unfamiliar as the rest of her; they matched exactly the ones he saw in the mirror every morning.

This woman was his mother.

But she was dead. She was dead, but he was here, with her, somehow.

He must be dead.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and another. He remembered the night before, sitting in the Astronomy Tower, and... and falling, the stars shining desperately, the wind rushing past him, the ground coming up to meet him, then–

Harry supposed he must have lost consciousness; it explained how he appeared here, with his mother.

Harry's eyes snapped back to her, and was shocked to find tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Are you alright," he asked, moving to try and offer comfort. His mother — his mother — began to cry in earnest, even as she smiled more widely.