He woke up under a table in what seemed to be a classroom. Every part of his body hurt like it had been though a shredder. He gasped to suck in some more air and felt ripping, burning, and pain through his chest. It was the feeling of intense worry that finally made him move. He grunted in pain as he rolled over to his side. For a couple of seconds he breathed though gritted teeth. Again he moved to raise his legs and turned again. He lay on his knees and pushed his forehead to the floor. He lay like that for a while, struggling not to pass out. Trying to remember where he was, and, he suddenly realised, who he was.

After some time, he did not know how long, he felt the strength to push up to a seating position. Throbbing pain rippled trough his spine and head. For a short moment he wondered where someone called George was, and if he was ok. His running thoughts where interrupted by a horrible loud, hissing, voice announcing that Harry Potter was dead. He knew that name sounded familiar somehow. How did he know that name? And why did it make him sad to hear that the man was dead? And what was it more the voice had said? Surrender or die? The most horrible thing was that he realised, that whoever the voice belonged to, he was going to die even if he surrendered.

He got to his feet. Looking around, it was defiantly a classroom. There were strange bottles everywhere in the glass cupboards. He looked at his hands, not recognizing them. This was not good, he thought. He must have some recollections of himself. He closed his eyes trying to remember, flashes of red hair come to him. He also remembered things like exploding, biting, puking, a lot of laughing and flying, hitting a strange ball with a bat. With a painful grunt he started to walk to the door. There must be something out there that could make him remember.

He awoke feeling like he wanted to hit somebody. There was dust on the floor and it made him sneeze. The force of the sudden exhale sent tinges of pain to his neck. He reached up and felt a strange moistness. He looked at his hand and saw it covered in blood. He winced, trying to make some sense of it all. Why was he felling so irritated and angry with the world. Because the world is a shithole, he thought to answer himself. He looked around wondering were he was, and, he suddenly realised, who he was.

It was a shabby dusty house; no one would have lived there for years. It seemed vaguely familiar. As he tried to remember, images of a black dog and a stag came to him. A dog and a stag, together in a house? And was there another dog too? He remembered being attacked by a vicious dog in this house, at least that was clear to him. Was that why he was bleeding? He looked around, wondering if the dog was still there. He could fell hatred bubbling inside him, but strangely enough, he felt that he hated the stag more than the dogs. Has he lost his mind as well as his memory?

He got to his feet trying to make sense of it all. He was inhibited in his movements by the strange big coat he was wearing. It was a staggering number of buttons he had to get through before he could get the coat off. All the pockets were empty. There hung a dusty, broken mirror on the wall. He staggered over to it, cleaning the glass with his shirtsleeve. The face that met him was about forty, had shoulder long black hair and dark stubble over the chin. It was also covered in blood. He tried to smile at the image, but there was no recollection at all. Even the smile seemed off.

He stepped outside the house dipping the corner of the coat in a rain puddle. Slowly he began to wash away the blood. Suddenly he heard voices from inside the house. He listened.

"The Malfoy brat said that Snape's body was here," said a man.

"Well where is it then?" a woman asked.

"How should I know?" the man sounded irritated.

"There is blood here. Maybe he is still alive."

"Just what we need," sighed the man. "Another murderer on the lose."

"We must report this."

Then there were two popping sounds. He stood up. Was he a murderer? Who had he murdered? And that name, Snape, was that his name? He did not like it. The best thing was to get out and get as far away as possible.

He was standing in front of a mirror feeling more confused than ever. The man in there had red hair, light skin, some freckles, quite handsome, and his name was George. The strange thing was that he was not George. The man in the mirror was George, not he. Something had gone very wrong in his head somewhere. There was the pain, maybe that was it. Maybe George was under the pain? Did that even make sense?

As he stepped back from the mirror he felt something under his foot. He looked down. It was some kind of stick. I could use a stick like this, he thought not knowing why. Something caught the side of his eye. In an alcove lay a man in a black coat and an ugly black mask. There was blood on the mask. He took a step forwards.

"You there!" someone screamed at him. "Don't move."

Thinking of a place to hide, he turned around so fast that he heard a popping sound, and suddenly he was standing somewhere completely different. The pain and the sudden surprise were too much for him and he fainted.

Snape, he had taken the name even if he did not like it, at least it was a name. He had no idea were he was going. All he knew was that he got to get away. There had been a village not far from the old house, but he had walked the other way, thinking that is was best to avoid people all together. He had begun to mutter swearwords and accusations to himself. Hopefully something would come out of his mouth that could remind him of something. He climbed over a fence on to a field. In the back of his mind he knew he was heading for the ocean.

As Snape stepped down from the fence he stepped on something soft. There was a whining sound. He looked down; there was a young man on the ground. First he wanted to run, but then he recognized the man in some way. Red hair, but not green eyes, the man had chestnut eyes. Snape bent down and looked at him, trying to remember.

"I know you…" said the man. "Who are you?"

Snape sneered, also something that felt very familiar. Not wanting to use a probable murderer's name Snape said the first name coming to him

"Prince"

"George," the man said, not sounding convinced over the statement.

It was soon clear to both men that neither of them had any memories of either themselves or what had happened to them. George remembered being in a castle and had said that he had heard a voice saying that Harry Potter was dead. The name had reminded Snape of the hated stag from the old house, and he felt quite good over this news. George showed Snape the stick he had found, and Snape suddenly felt angry because he did not have a stick of his own.

"Do you want it?" asked George holding the stick out.

Snape wanted to scold the young man, never, ever leave your… what? Your stick? With out a word he grabbed the stick and placed inside his big coat. It was perfectly clear that the man was not responsible enough to have a stick. In fact, now that he was thinking about it, he would not trust the man to have anything. There was a teasing streak in the young man's handsome face he did not like, and quite frankly it scared him.