Harry walked a city of dream, a city called Zanarkand.
There was something wrong, for he did not know where it was, or when, or why or how he'd come to be here. Harry didn't know if he dreamed.
"Sin!" It was a hiss; it tugged at Harry under his navel like a Portkey. He saw it then, a fraction of darkness, a fractured soul. It was why he was here. What he was meant to see.
Its red eyes looked into Harry, and Harry knew Voldemort had used him, used the dream of Zanarkand. That was when Harry stopped fighting the tug in his gut, the summoning like a Portkey.
Harry woke then, on the world of Spira, between sand and sea, on the Isle of Besaid.
He did not wake alone.
"You okay, ya?" Fingers threaded through his hair, soothing, checking him over for injury. Harry's eyes flicked open, alarmed, red hair and warm brown eyes greeted him, the grin was friendly, as easy as the fingers in his hair.
"Yeah..." Harry breathed in, and choked, the air was something new to get used to. The magic here was what made his body react.
"Easy, easy…" Big hands rubbed soothingly on his back.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Harry's voice was rough as sand paper.
"This is Besaid, I'm Wakka and ya?" It was a hint Harry followed with a sigh.
"Harry." Wakka stifled a snicker.
"Poor name." Harry rolls his eyes, aware that he hasn't much hair to claim.
"Up you get - least the sea washes you away to where you came." Harry gets slowly onto his hands and knees, and from there stands, looking back over the sea. It's wide and rolling, blue waves coming and going. He doesn't have a way back. He came here in a dream that was not. This is his reality.
"I have no where else to go." This is home, now.
"Then you stay with me?" Wakka wraps an arm about Harry's shoulders, and walks him away from his only sign of his arrival, the proof that he is living and breathing and this is more then a dream, his footprints in the sand.
It's those same footprints that Tidus follows come twilight.