A/N: I wrote this story because i really love the "Harry meets the marauders" so i wanted to see if i could do one!

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise, I do not own

Harry Potter was confused.

One moment he was talking to Ron and Hermione outside the burrow about the plans for the remembrance service that was going to be held in memory to those who had died in the final battle, and next thing he knew he was lying in what was unmistakably the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Everything was just as he remembered it from his multiple journeys here. Pristine and white. Someone should really paint it something better, white was just so boring.

Just as he was considering going and finding Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomphrey appeared out of her office, busying herself with some healing potions.

It struck Harry as odd that she was here during the holidays, but he supposed that some of the teachers must stay at Hogwarts sometimes. He could see no other explanations.

Just then, she turned and noticed him watching her.

"Oh, so you're awake are you?" she said briskly, "I must say you were rather unexpected dropping onto the quidditch pitch like that. Gave Mr Black quite a fright."

Harry was too shocked by her unfriendly tone to register straight away that she had referred to a "Mr Black" who didn't exist as far as Harry knew. He thought that Sirius was the last one.

"Well, speak up lad." Madam Pomphrey said sharply, "what's your name? I know that the Headmaster will want to speak with you, for security reasons."

Harry was starting to feel that something was awfully wrong. Not only did Madam Pomphrey seem to think that Hogwarts had a Headmaster but she also didn't seem to recognise him.

"Harry," he said distractedly, "My name's Harry."

"Harry what?" she prompted, but before he could answer, the hospital wing doors banged open.

Immediately Harry jumped out of bed in shock and reached for his wand before realising it was no longer in his back pocket. He had good reason for this, for he was now facing a man who he knew to be dead. Albus Dumbledore.

"You're wand is here boy" said Madam Pomphrey, picking up Harry's wand from the bedside table. "You dropped it when you arrived here. Though why you would need it makes me question you're identity. Why do you want to attack Dumbledore? How did you get here? Are you working for him?"

"Now, now Poppy, I'm sure that there's a reasonable explanation for this," said Dumbledore his eyes wary as he eyed Harry, who was looking confused and pressurised by the speed of madam Pomphrey's questioning.

Harry was getting more confused by the minute. He always thought that madam Pomphrey had a bit of a soft spot for him, but here she was, treating him like a complete stranger. Not to mention the fact that Dumbledore, a man who he himself had watched die, was standing alive and (as far as harry could tell) healthy five feet away from him.

Coming to his senses Harry realised that there was no possible way that Dumbledore was still alive which left him with three options. One, he was having a very bizarredream, two, he had done what the Daily Prophet always said he would do and had finally cracked under all the pressure, or three, this was a complicated set up by the remaining Death Eaters set up to try and drive him crazy.

Seeing as he didn't feel particularly mental, and a painful pinch to his arm ruled out the possibility that this was all due to his exhausted brain, then that meant that there was only one possibility left to him.

Suddenly, he ran over and snatched his wand out of Madam Pomphrey's loose grip, vaulting over the bed towards the hospital doors before realising that Dumbledore was facing him, wand in hand.

Harry probably should have been worried by the fact that he was being held at wand point by one of the most powerful wizards of all time, but he was more focused upon the wand in Dumbledore's hand. He knew that wand, knew it for he himself had buried it with its master, he himself had ordered many charms to be placed on it so no one could ever possess it again. Yet here it was, in the hands of the person with whom it was supposed to reside.

The Elder Wand