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.

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.

"Oh, Harry," she repeated, spreading her arms, and without conscious thought he stepped into her embrace. She pulled him closer, resting her chin on his head, and Harry reveled in the first hug he could ever remember receiving.

"Lily?" asked a new voice. Harry spun around to look at the new figure, only to find himself confronted by his double, if his double was ten years older than him: same birds-nest black hair, same strong jaw, same copper-coloured skin, though his father's — his father's — looked warmer, undertones of bronze and gold shining through.

His father stuttered to a stop as he realised who was in her arms. "Harry," he said, voice strangled, before rushing forward to pick him up and spin him around delightedly. Harry felt like he should be more wary, should react, defend himself, but he couldn't bring himself to tear himself away from this, couldn't bring himself to isolate himself from their touch. So he clung tight, his smile splitting his face as for the first time he could remember, he felt loved.

"But– how–" he started to say, even as his father pulled back to hold him at arm's length, a proud smile stretching across his face.

"How?" his father repeated, and he smiled again, though this time it was strained, like shattered pieces held together. "Well Harry," he started, "Harry, Harry, Harry."

His mother huffed impatiently, having moved round so she could see his face too. "We're dead, Harry," she said bluntly, though not unkindly. His father winced.

"Lily," he whined, his eyes cutting back to Harry even as he turned to look at her.

"James," she said in the same tone, but her eyes were filled with an emotion Harry couldn't place. "You were stalling, dear," she told his father.

"Yes, well." His father humphed. "I was trying to be delicate."

His mother snorted, shoving his father in the shoulder, who adopted a wounded expression. Harry barely dared to blink, drinking in the sight of his parents, scared to look away for even a second in case they vanished.

"Is–" Harry started, before cutting himself off. Don't ask questions. Both his parents had stopped what they were doing to look at him, and Harry flinched preemptively from the blow that was sure to follow, throwing up his hands to hide his face.

But neither of them had moved. Harry peeked from between his fingers, still wary, but instead of rage he saw… sorrow, on his father's face? There were tears in his eyes. His mother wasn't crying, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes, but for once, Harry was certain it wasn't aimed at him.

"Go on," she said, arms outstretched but not too close. "What were you going to say, Harry?"

"Is this it?" he asked, then flushed furiously. "Wait, no–"

His parents laughed, and his blush deepened. He shrunk away from where he had unconsciously leant closer to his parents. Stupid, stupid. Of course they wouldn't be any different.

The two stopped laughing immediately. A pale pink blush coloured his mother's cheeks. "No," she said hurriedly, "We didn't– we weren't– oh bollocks."

"What your mother is trying to say," his father interrupted, smiling fondly at her, "Is that we weren't laughing at you. It's just your question is pretty much exactly what Lily said when we arrived."

A small smile crossed Harry's face, quiet joy at something else he shared with his mother. His father smiled quietly back.

Harry looked around, taking in more of his surroundings. Apart from him and his parents, there seemed nothing to mark any changes. There was only this white, misty emptiness. "So where are we, then?" he asked in a small voice.

"I… have no idea," his mother said, frowning slightly. Her eyebrows scrunched together, and a look at his father showed a shared confusion. Harry looked around again. The mist was changing around them, solidifying and taking shape, until the three of them were standing in a large, open space. There were benches behind and in front of them, and further on Harry could see more platforms. More, because looking down– yes, they were on a platform too.

"I think," he told his parents, "We're in King's Cross Station." He frowned. "If it was whiter, and cleaner, I guess." His parents looked around. A small smile crossed his mother's face. His father had his head tilted back to see the roof, and Harry looked up as well.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted another splash of colour, standing out in the blankness of the rest of the station. He started towards it when a hand landed on his arm. When he flinched his mother quickly pulled her hand back. Her eyes were pained when she looked at him. "We'll go together," she said, and a warmth bloomed in Harry's chest as they moved to stand on either side of him.

The three of them walked quietly towards the thing. His parents palmed their wands, and for a moment Harry regretted not having his own wand with him.

It was a baby. But the ugliest baby he'd ever seen: pale and spindly, its face was squashed flat, and its eyes were a blood red that, when he looked at them, had Harry certain he'd seen them before.

"What–" Harry swallowed, both repulsed by the baby, and disgusted he was trying to avoid such a pitiful thing. He tried again, "What is it?"

His father turned to him, and crouched so he was Harry's height. "There are a lot of things you learn when you're dead, Harry," he told him. His eyes were clear hazel, and fixed intently on him. "Some people don't want to die, and will do anything to avoid it," his father said. "They'll use elixirs and rituals to stay alive, but at a great cost to themselves."

"James," his mother sighed, and Harry turned to her. "You're avoiding the point." His father sputtered for a moment before deflating. She also crouched to his height and met Harry's eyes.

"Voldemort's tried to escape death," she told him, serious. "He's used Horcruxes, a foul magic that involves splitting your soul through murder and sealing it away." Harry shuddered at the thought, and his mother nodded. "It is terrible," she agreed, "But he did it anyway. On the night he died, he wanted to use your death to make a Horcrux."

"But he didn't?"

"No," she sighed, "No, he did, but it didn't go as planned." Her eyes flickered to his forehead, and Harry self-consciously brushed his hair over his scar– his scar. He felt sick.

"What– there's part of his soul in me?"

His parents looked at each other, and chuckled weakly. "I always knew you were a quick one," his mother said. His father looked fondly at him. He reached, making sure to telegraph his movements, to ruffle his hair. It was something familiar, even though he couldn't remember it happening before. Harry leant into the touch.

"Not quite," his father said, and moved his hand to point at the baby under the seat. "That was the horcrux in your scar. It's not part of you anymore."

Harry took a moment to let that sink in, shoulders easing. He looked back at the baby Voldemort; it weakly tried to wave a fist, but didn't have the strength. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked, because there was nothing scary about this baby. It was only something to pity.

his mother gasped wetly, and he looked at her, alarmed. Her eyes were wet, and she drew him into her arms. "You're so good, Harry," she said thickly, "So good."

His father's hand was a comfort on his back, and they stood there for more than a moment, taking comfort. When he shifted back minutely, both let him go without protest. All three of them had wet eyes as they looked back at the baby.

"No." his father's voice was solemn, but held a note of finality,. "There's nothing we can do."

They stood watching the baby for a little while longer, before continuing to walk down the platform. The surroundings remained the same blank white, the benches placed at regular intervals. They never came to the end of the platform, even though there surely must be one.

After a long while walking in silence, Harry asked another question. "What now?"

His parents looked at each other, and they led him to a bench nearby. Sat between them, he spared a moment to wonder if this was something they would have done often, had they all lived. His parents seemed to have the same thought.

"I'm dead right?" he asked his parents, as the silence stretched.

"Yeah, you are."

"So this is what happens after death?"

His mother sighed. "No, it's not. You're different than most, Harry," she said. "Because of Voldemort's Horcrux, you've got a choice."

Green eyes met green eyes. "You can go on… or you can go back."

Harry kept her stare, then turned to look at his father. He tried to drink in as many details as he could: the shape if his glasses, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell in a messy halo around his head. Then he looked back at his mother, taking in the length of her nose, the crease her eyebrows made as she thought, the gap in her teeth when she smiled, catching him looking.

He swallowed, and prepared to give them up. Somehow it was harder than he thought it would be. "Well I've– I've got to go back, haven't I?"

"No!"

His father seemed as shocked as the rest of them by how loud he was. He visibly controlled his volume when he spoke again, but the intensity was undiminished, "No, Harry. You don't have to, if you don't want. It's your choice."

Thoughts he'd suppressed, of staying with his parents, whatever might be waiting for them, burst to the front of his mind. Harry couldn't bring himself to ignore them again. He didn't want to.

"What if– what if I wanted to go on?" he said quietly.

His mother smiled sadly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Well," she said wetly, "We're in King's Cross. I think we could get on a train."

"And where would go?"

"On," she said simply.

After a moment, his father also wrapped an arm around him, and they sat together, not speaking, for a long while.

It wasn't a surprise when a train pulled up to the platform. Not really. King's Cross was already beginning to fade around its sleek black engine as they stood. His mother and father stood next to him, not pushing him on, or holding him back. Harry reached out and took his parents' hands, and together, they walked onto the train.