Harry was walking in the Forbidden Forest. The sunlight, filtered through the thick canopy, reached the leaf-strewn floor only in dim, dappled patterns shifting in the breeze. The forest was always much more welcoming in the day, especially near the border where it was thinner, younger.

He passed through a small clearing and had a tingling of deja vu. But as he studied the trees, nothing came to mind.

Suddenly, he had an overwhelming sensation that he was being watched. He whipped around, but no one was there. It was silent but for the great trunks creaking and the leaves rustling in the wind and the birds singing in the distance.

When he turned around, he noticed something small glinting in a patch of sun. He squatted down to look at it. He picked it up. It was a Knut-sized stone with something scratched in the surface. His sense of deja vu was pounding in his head, but still he could recall nothing.

"Time to wake up, Harry," Hermione said.

Harry turned around to see her standing behind him.

"I'm already awake, Hermione," he said, but she ignored him.

"Ha-arry—" she crooned.

Then Ron said, "Come on, mate, wake up."

He opened his eyes.

"Harry!" he heard Ron and Hermione cry.

"Hello," he said. "Can I have my glasses?"

There was a pause. Hermione spoke. "Of course, Harry. They must be back in the dormitory. Accio glasses."

"Would you like to sit up, Mr Potter?" said a third voice, which Harry recognized as Madam Pomfrey's.

"Yeah."

Together, Hermione and Madam Pomfrey lifted Harry and propped him against some pillows. His muscles felt a little shaky. Ron stretched out a hand to Harry, and he guessed that his glasses were there. He slipped them on to find three faces peering at him intently.

"What?" he said self-consciously.

"Well, you haven't lost any fine motor control," said Madam Pomfrey. "I didn't think you would."

"Why am I here?" Harry asked, wondering if there was some reason that he might have lost motor skills.

"We will get to that later. For now, we need to address your lost memories," Madam Pomfrey said.

"Harry, what month is it, as far as you know?" Hermione asked.

"Um... May, I think."

She sighed and looked disappointed.

"What month is it, then?" Harry said.

"It's December, Harry," Ron said.

December. He was missing seventh months of his life.

"How can I not remember seventh months?" he asked.

"It's complicated," Hermione said. "We—that is, Madam Pomfrey and I—believe it's a combination of traumatic injury to your brain and a psychological reaction to something else."

"What 'traumatic injury'?"

Ron spoke. "You and I, we were walking outside. It was kind of windy. An icicle fell from the castle and hit you in the back of the neck."

Harry cautiously reached up to feel his neck. It was smooth and unscarred.

"I was able to mend all of the surface injuries," Madam Pomfrey said. "But you had a severe concussion. I put you in a coma to ward off further brain damage. From my examinations, it seemed that only a couple areas of your brain suffered damage, which is why I suspected your motor skills would be as before."

"But the affected areas—they had to do with memory?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

He took a deep breath. "Is it permanent?"

"I believe not. But you may have to be reminded of every single thing that happened to you. Other things may surface in time. However, if you are able to find the root of any psychological response, as Miss Granger suggested, the process will be much easier."

"Do you have any questions, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"If it's December, why are we at Hogwarts? What happened to Voldemort?"

"Voldemort's dead," Ron said. "You duelled him and won."

"But... I wouldn't have cast the Killing Curse on him. Would I?" Harry said tentatively.

"No," Hermione said. "He had the Elder Wand. But you were—you were brilliant, really. You told him how you were the true master of the Wand. He cast the curse. It rebounded and killed him instead."

And Harry remembered. The flash of green light, Voldemort's crumpled form on the ground. But so many other broken bodies, too. He began to remember more. The memories flooded through him.

The Room of Requirement and Dumbledore's Army. Ravenclaw's diadem. The Battle. Snape's death. Harry's death. So much death.

"Fred," Harry whispered, and looked at Ron.

He looked away. "Yeah."

Hermione reached over and wrapped an arm around him. "But we won."

"Why are we still here?"

"A decision was made jointly, between the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts, that all Seventh Years must return to Hogwarts for an additional year of schooling in order to graduate. There were too many disruptions and too much interference for last year's education to count for much," Madam Pomfrey explained.

Harry was starting to feel sleepy once more. "Why am I so tired?"

"A complication arising from the brain damage, I'm afraid. It will pass with time."

He yawned and slumped down. He asked one last question before closing his eyes. "How long have I been here?"

As he fell back to sleep and someone removed his glasses, he heard Hermione's faint words: "Nearly three weeks."

Another pair of figures stood talking in the Infirmary, a different couple than before. They stood a distance away from the occupied bed as though afraid of being overheard.

"I thought you said you cured his vision," said the younger of the two.

"And so I did. I did not lie to you. His continued poor vision must be a psychosomatic reaction, undoubtedly with the same root cause as the memory loss," said the other.

"Do we tell him?"

"No. Telling him would only put him under undue stress to resolve his issues. We can only hope that he will be able to heal himself. Until then, ignorance will be his bliss."

Across the castle, in a small office, was another pair. The older of the two sat behind a desk; the other stood with clenched fists.

The former sighed before speaking. "The memory loss was more extensive than we had hoped."

"So?"

"He doesn't remember anything—not a single thing—that happened since the second of May."

"The Battle."

"Yes."

The standing figure stared out the window over the snowy castle courtyard. "So he doesn't remember me. At least not the way he should."

"No. He may, eventually, but for now we think it wise for you to keep your distance. Once we have reconstructed his memories sufficiently, we hope your appearance will spark more recollection."

"I can't... I can't even see him?"

McGonagall exhaled heavily. "I'm afraid not. We can't risk him waking and being unnecessarily... agitated... by your presence."

There was a long silence.

"This isn't easy for any of us, you know."

A pause.

"You are dismissed."