Lost

by Starbunny

Chapter 1 - The Patient

The first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was the white wall across from him. He didn't remember white walls. There was a vase of fake flowers on the nightstand next to the bed. He didn't remember flowers, either.

Before he could reflect further on what he did not remember, a pretty woman walked into the room.

"Oh, you're awake!" she said cheerfully. "I'll let the doctor know just as soon as I've checked your vitals."

At least he remembered English. But there was something strange about the way she was talking, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He sat in silence as she puttered around him doing more things he couldn't remember. His head hurt.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?"

For a few moments he didn't realize she was speaking to him. Then he shook his head to try to clear it, and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "Is that me? Mister Potter?"

"Isn't it?" the woman replied in shock. She glanced to the foot of his bed. "Your chart says your name is Harry Potter. Is that not you?"

Harry Potter... the name didn't ring any bells, but then again the list of things he remembered was limited so far to how to speak and understand the English language. His headache intensified. Now he was seeing spots in front of his eyes.

"I don't know," he mumbled. He was losing his grip on consciousness again. "I can't remember a thing. I suppose I could be him... Harry..."

The next time he woke up, there were voices whispering furiously together somewhere near his bed. His eyes felt too heavy to open.

"And you say he's British, Amy?"

"Yes, he has the most adorable accent."

"He's very handsome, isn't he? I wonder how he got here."

"Maggie Lanier found him, collapsed right outside her home."

"Yes, I know that. Doesn't everyone? But how did he get in front of her house? And what's wrong with him?"

"Dr. Tealey said he looks perfectly healthy from all the tests we've run. But something is obviously wrong. Healthy people don't collapse into comas out of the blue. He was about to have him transferred to Atlanta for more testing when he woke up this morning."

"He told me he didn't remember anything. Do you think he has amnesia?"

"Oh, Amy. Amnesia doesn't happen in real life like it does in the movies. Ten to one he'll wake up again remembering everything and he'll be able to satisfy all our curiosity."

He had a vague thought that he hoped the woman was right, before he slipped back into the darkness.

The next time he woke up, it was dark outside. The clock beside his bed read 3:41 in bright red numbers, but this time he was wide awake. The fogginess in his brain had disappeared, and physically he felt wonderful. He sat up and looked around the room carefully. There was a window off to his left that currently had the blinds drawn. There on the nightstand next to his bed was the vase of flowers he hadn't remembered upon his first waking. There was a painting on the wall of a man on horseback. I wonder why it isn't moving? He shook his head at that thought. It meant something that the painting wasn't moving, but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Memory loss. Amnesia. Hadn't the nurses been talking about that before? Had he really lost his memories? He leaned back against his pillow and started to think. Who was he? The nurse had said he was Harry Potter, but that name didn't mean anything to him. Still, no matter how hard he thought, he could come up with no other name that fit him. So perhaps he was Harry Potter and just didn't remember it.

What else was there to remember? Did he have a family? No, he didn't remember a family. Did he have a job? No memory of a job. Where was he from? And still, he remembered nothing.

He let out a long breath, trying to clear his mind. But it was all a big muddle. He could almost feel the memories inside his head somewhere, but he couldn't reach them.

The nurses were all in a flurry the next morning when they realized he was awake. They asked him question after question, none of which he could answer. How old are you? Where are you from? What is your name? How did you get here?

"I don't know what else to say," he groaned at the latest barrage of questions. "I reckon you," he pointed a finger at the nurse in front of him, "know a lot more about me than I do. For example, how old am I?"

"It's hard to say. Maybe in your early thirties?"

"What caused my amnesia?"

The nurse shook her head. "I'm afraid we have no idea, Mr. Potter. There was no sign of trauma to your head, an MRI came back normal, and all of your blood work was normal. As far as medical science can tell, you are perfectly healthy."

He thought for several long moments. "If I'm perfectly healthy, then I'd like to leave the hospital."

"But you don't remember anything about yourself! How would you survive?"

"I need to get out of here. I'm tired of doing nothing. Can you please get the doctor's permission for me to leave?"

She agreed, and left the room. Several minutes later, she came back in with a box in her hands and a disapproving look on her face.

"The doctor has decided to release you, even though you have not regained your memory. I want to say, though, that I still feel like you should stay." She handed him a small box. "These are all the items that were found on you. I hope they will help trigger some memories for you."

He looked inside the box. There were only two things inside: a small leather drawstring bag, and a sheet of thick yellow paper with 'From the Quill of Harry James Potter' written across the top. There was no other writing on the paper. He picked up the leather bag. It felt heavy, and he could hear objects rattling inside of it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the bag to open.

Finally giving up, he folded the paper back up and put it in his pocket. Then he hooked the drawstrings on his bag to his belt buckle and smiled at the nurse.

"I wonder if you might tell me where I am right now?"

"Rose Hill General Hospital," she said. "If you want an airport, Atlanta's the place to go. It's only two hours from here." She narrowed her eyes. "And the hospitals there are much more sophisticated than here in the country. You really should check into one of their hospitals and see if there's something to be done for your memory loss."

After filling out some pointless paperwork, he finally was able to leave. The woman who had found him collapsed in front of her house had graciously paid his hospital bills the day before, and so he felt the proper thing for him to do first would be to go and thank her. Also, there was the outside possibility that she had some information about the incident that would help him figure out who he was and what had happened to him. He got directions to her house from the hospital staff, and he set off on foot.

He had passed suburban houses and pretty lanes, and now he was walking by a deserted field.

Or was it deserted? He blinked as - seemingly out of nowhere - a massive stadium appeared. Something inside of him quickened at the sight of the stadium. Whatever it was, it looked fun. And he was in dire need of some fun. He jogged across the field towards the entrance.

There was a woman standing just outside, looking as though she were waiting for someone. She had her hands on her hips and was tapping her left foot in an agitated manner. Her long, sandy brown hair was pulled back from her face in a neat ponytail, and she kept flipping the hair over her shoulder in disgust. She obviously didn't want to be disturbed.

"Excuse me," he said boldly. "Can you tell me what is going on here?"

The woman looked startled, as if she hadn't noticed him standing there until that very minute. "What, the game? The Ravens are playing the All-Stars. It's going to be a great match. The winners will probably go on to play for the American Quidditch Cup."

"What's quidditch?"

The woman laughed. "Hey! We do occasionally play games other than quodpot here in the States!"

He had obviously missed something, but he felt like saying anything else would make him seem like a complete idiot.

"Hey, do you need a ticket?" she asked. "My friend has obviously stood me up, so I have an extra one."

"Er, well, I don't have any money..."

"Don't worry about it," she smiled. "My name's Samantha Redding, by the way."

"Er, thanks. I'm ... Harry. Harry Potter."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Harry Potter? What kind of a joke is that? Do other witches fall for that or something? Is it the British accent? You know, I don't have to give you this ticket."

She started to walk away, but he grabbed her arm and said insistently, "No, wait. What's wrong with the name Harry Potter? Why don't you think I'm him? Please, tell me what you know!"

She looked at him strangely. "Well for starters, I know that Harry Potter has a scar on his forehead, and you have none."

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Harry Potter - the real Harry Potter - was racing through the halls of the Ministry of Magic. He hadn't left the Ministry in five days. There were circles under his eyes, five days' worth of stubble on his chin, and his face looked thin, as though he wasn't remembering to eat. But Harry Potter was on a mission, and he wasn't going to stop until the case was wrapped up.

And just moments before, he had gotten his first big lead. Wrightly had been captured, and he, Harry, was going to question him.

When he reached the holding cell, Harry slowed down and took a few deep breaths before entering. So much rested on this interrogation. If he couldn't get the information he needed out of Wrightly, the case might never be solved. And Harry would not allow for that to happen.

Finally, after he was fully composed, he went inside the room and sat down across from the dark wizard. He was a thin man with dark, graying hair that reached just past his ears. His eyes were small and cold, and his body language indicated that this wasn't going to be an easy exchange.

"Please state your name for the record."

Wrightly sneered back at him, but said nothing.

"Is your name Archibald Wrightly?"

The man shrugged. Harry wanted to slug the man, but outwardly he maintained his calm demeanor.

"Mr. Wrightly, I must warn you that failure to comply with the Ministry will mean a harsher sentence should you be convicted."

Wrightly grinned, revealing one gold front tooth. "I have no use for the Ministry, and you'll never pin anything down on me."

"What do you know of the fugitive former Death Eater known as Marcel Decreux?"

"Nothing that I want to tell you about."

Harry's right hand was clenched in a fist now, and he knew he was just moments from losing control. He had to get information out of this man - he had to.

"Were you involved with the auror attack at Somerset last week?"

Wrightly leaned forward, his face full of triumph. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

That was it. Harry stood up, picked up his chair, and threw it across the room. Then he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

"You'd better start talking quickly. My sister-in-law is upstairs right now getting the papers signed to administer veritaserum. You do realize this case involves a war hero? I have no doubt that Hermione will be able to get the Minister's signature. So you'd better tell me now, before it's too late. What did you do to Ronald Weasley?"

AN: So I know I ought to be working on Ministry Matchmakers right now (and I am! I am!), but this is a plot bunny that has been sitting in my head for years now that I could never quite shake. I finally sat down and wrote the first chapter out, and I'm really just wondering if anyone is interested in reading more. So please take some time to let me know what you think of it. :-)