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(A/N): This was an idea that was bouncing around in my head, and just wouldn't quiet down. It's a one shot for now, but I might make it a full multi-chapter story if there's enough interest.

Disclaimer: Harry potter belongs to JK Rowling. I do not own Harry potter. I'm just playing in her playground

The sound of footsteps was what woke him up. He raised his head, his neck stiff, wrists chaffed beyond hope in the manacles above his head.

Those clicking steps of the booted heels he knew so well, coming ever closer as he took a relaxed posture. As nonchalant as his emaciated, aching form would allow. The simple movement was torturously painful to his wounded body.

The heavy wooden door to his cell creaked open, and he squinted as light poured into the dark, cold cell. The warm, flickering light of the corridor beyond illuminated the outline that he knew too well. The outline of his torturer. Green eyes met violet ones as he took in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange once again.

Her aristocratic, beautiful face, framed by high cheekbones and black hair, reminiscent of her heritage as a Black. Her now recovered, voluptuous form, that had not so long ago been thin and ugly from Azkaban. Her black outfit, and combat boots, that was tight in just the right places.

Yes, Bellatrix Lestrange was a beautiful woman. But she was also insane. And a masochist and sadist at the same time. Somehow.

'Oh well', He thought, 'no one's perfect.'

As he took her in for the hundredth (Thousandth? Then Thousandth? He couldn't remember), she spoke.

"Good Morning Potter! How did you sleep?"

The tone could have been called friendly if it hadn't been from his torturer.

Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore clashed in the middle of the Atrium, at the Ministry of Magic. Spell fire rent the air, magic and matter tossed between the two great sorcerers as they dueled. The ground around them cracked from repeated impacts, was thrown in the air, and was promptly used in the battle. Even the statues in the center of the Atrium weren't spared. This was a fight between two magical titans, and Harry could only gape.

The plan had been simple. Get to the ministry, save Sirius, who was supposed to be trapped there, and get the hell out.

As soon as they arrived, things started to go downhill. Fast. Upon arriving to the room where Harry had seen Sirius in his vision, they found out that he'd never been there in the first place. It was a trap. And He had fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker.

One by one, his friends, who had followed him into this madness, had fallen. Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny. All out of the fight.

At least they hadn't died.

No, Sirius had. He and many of the order members had shown up to save their stupid hides. As Bellatrix and Sirius faced off in the Death Chamber, Sirius's taunting had gone one line to far. Bellatrix's spell hit him dead in the chest, and he had fallen back, into the Veil of Death.

Only Remus holding him back had stopped harry from following Sirius in.

So he had fought, and ran when he couldn't fight.

Harry had reached the atrium, only to come face to face with his enemy. Lord Voldemort. In the Ministry.

Well, at least the prophecy orb he wanted was gone.

Dumbledore had shown up as Voldemort had tried to possess Harry, speaking though him. But he had somehow managed to cast out the snake-faced bastard.

As he watched the duel, Harry could see people arrive in the Ministry. A crowd formed on the edges of the duel. Harry could even see the Minister of Magic, Cornelius (Nitwit) Fudge, gaping at the black robed figure.

"Is that…. You-Know-Who?!"

Voldemort had chosen that moment to look around and snarl. He stopped his barrage of spells and shouted out, "Take this night Dumbledore! But I will take this battle!"

Then he cried out a spell that made Harry's blood run cold.

Accio Harry Potter!

And Harry flew across the atrium, straight into the waiting hands of his parents' murderer. As Voldemort activated his portkey, Harry felt a familiar jerk behind his navel. A single thought flitted through his head as the world began to spin, and his exploded in pain.

"Well shit."

The next weeks (Or was it months? Or years?) passed for Harry in a blur of pain.

Voldemort had arrived in Malfoy Manor holding onto his limp, exhausted body.

They had promptly thrown him into the deepest dungeon cell in the Manor.

He had had various torturers over the first few weeks. The numbers only increased when Voldemort had broken his most loyal out of Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy, Rudolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, even Pettigrew. And after every week, the Dark Lord would come, and ask Harry, oh so calmly, if he would tell him the prophecy. And Harry would refuse. Every single time.

In his mind, the first torturers were the gentle ones. They would use spells, often the Cruciatus to torture him.

But that changed when Voldemort told Bellatrix to take over.

The mad witch didn't limit herself to just magic. She would do anything to torture him. Quite literally.

She would break his fingers with her bare hands, flay off parts of his skin, cause spikes to grow through his foot, use whips, chains, ice , fire, anything to make him break.

She would feed him once a week, forcing rough bread down his throat with her wand, tearing his esophagus, blast him in the face with an Aguamenti charm, in the name of feeding him.

But the worst part? The worst part was that she wouldn't gloat. Unlike the others, she would speak while she hurt him, often mocking, or berating him in a condescending tone. But after she was done, she would leave. No talk of how her master was the best, no talk of how pathetic he was or how doomed his friends were. No, just silence.

As the torture continued, his perception of time left him. Minutes blurred into hours, which blurred into days, which blurred into weeks, until he didn't know anything but the haze of pain.

His body grew weak, thin, his ribs easily visible. Scars covered every inch of his body, his torso just one mass of scar tissue. But, strangely enough, she left his face alone.

But, despite the pain, despite the nightmares, the visions of Voldemort planning and carrying out his schemes, the visions of brutality, rape and murder, he didn't break. He couldn't. Harry refused to let Voldemort win. The prophecy was one thing he would be taking to the grave with him, the price be damned.

So, he hung on. He begged, he raged, he screamed his throat hoarse, he ignored it, but damn it he didn't let snake-face get what he wanted.

"Good morning Potter! How did you sleep?"

Harry gave Bellatrix one of his once-charming smiles and replied in as jovial a tone as his abused throat could muster, "Good Morning to you too Bella! Can I just say, you look ravishing today. Is that a new eye shadow?"

He smirked internally as he heard Bellatrix grit her teeth. This was his latest form of defiance, one that grated on her nerves. He acted as though nothing was wrong, talking to her like she was a close friend that he had just met again, even flirting with her on a regular basis. And he knew it drove her out of her mind.

Now slightly heartened, he continued. "So what's on the list for today's activities Bella darling? Stabbing? Flaying? Bone-breaking? Psychological torture? Cruciatus? Something more.. intimate?", he asked, quirking one eyebrow suggestively (as well as he could muster) at the last option. He had found that she liked to throw out innuendo and suggestive lines, but flip the tables, and she was always caught off guard.

Bellatrix, caught off guard at the last comment, quickly composed herself and sneered, "Count yourself lucky today Potter. The Dark Lord wishes to talk to you today."

Her wand whipped in the air, and the manacles holding him up vanished. He collapsed to the ground, unable to pull himself up, as Voldemort entered the cell.

The Dark lord conjured up a comfortable armchair and sat down on it, crossing his legs and looking down at the collapsed form of the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Good morning Harry.", He began, his voice soft, like he was talking to a small child, "How are you feeling?"

Harry managed to pull himself into a sitting position, back to the cold stone wall.

"Well, Tommy Boy, as well as you can in a dungeon like this. I mean, accommodations ain't exactly five star. If I had to rate this, it would be a three star dungeon at the highest."

This was evidently not what Voldemort was expecting. He leaned forward in his chair, ignoring the use of his real name, interested. "What do you mean?"

Harry snorted in derision. "Well", he croaked out, "This place could do with some major improvements. Just to improve the psychological aspect of the torture. For one, you could make the door soundproof. That way, the prisoner wont know if anyone is coming. I regularly wake up to the sound of Bellatrix's boots on the hallway, so I know when my day begins. Secondly, why manacles? Do a bar behind the head, with wrists attached to each side. Sort of like a crucification. You know. Like Christ. Also, you can hang the prisoner forward at an angle, so that their wrists and ankles are constantly straining against the shackles. Ooh, also, do a drip of water so that it falls on the prisoner's back, just out of reach. Then don't give them water. It'll drive them mad! If not from thirst then from the cold!"

Voldemort leaned back on his chair, contemplating what Harry had just told him. "You may be right. But, indulge me, why would you tell me ways to make you r torture worse for you?"

Harry couldn't help but smirk. "Because if you're going to torture someone, do it right! Not the half assed wand waving most of your followers consider torture. And don't get me wrong Bella darling, while I do love your technique, you could do a few things a bit better."

"Enough", Voldemort snapped, "Are you going to tell me the prophecy or not Harry? You know that's all it takes. Just give me what I want and you don't need to suffer."

Harry could only snort in reply. "Don't lie to me Tom. As soon as I gave you the prophecy, you would kill me. Even if you didn't want to now, you will after. So why don't we just cut to the chase, eh? You already know enough, right?"

"The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches….. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies….."

"Really all you need isn't it Tommy?"

"Enough with the games!", Voldemort snapped, his voice laced with irritation, "Give me the prophecy Boy!"

Defiantly, Harry looked Voldemort straight in the eye. "You want it Tom? Come and get it."

Seething in rage, Voldemort raised his wand pointed it straight at Harry and shouted, "Legilimens!"

Harry screamed as Voldemort dove into his mind, assaulting his memories. The probe shifted through his memories, but the prophecy was nowhere to be found.

'Serves you right you bastard', Harry thought. The Half-blood pretender wouldn't ever find the prophecy that Harry had managed to hide away.

Inside Harry's head, Voldemort screamed in rage. "Is that so Potter?! Well, let's see the best way to end you then!"

Voldemort proceeded to tear through his memories, looking, searching for a spell to end his life with. And suddenly, he stopped. Harry spotted the spell he was looking at, one that he had seen in one of the darkest tomes in the Library of Grimmauld place. After looking through the spell's title and procedure, the probe withdrew from Harry's mind, leaving him gasping on the floor.

The triumphant smirk on Voldemort's face did little to assuage Harry's fears. "Really Potter? A spell to erase someone from existence? Who were you planning to use it on? ME?"

All Harry could do was nod.

"Well then. It's a perfect solution wouldn't you say?", Tom riddle said, a terrifying grin across his monstrous face, "Who would care that you were dead? No one would remember you. No one would miss you. No one would grieve!"

Finishing his gloating, Voldemort raised his wand, and began to chant out the words of the spell. From his place on the floor, Harry could do nothing but watch, as the spell neared completion, and white ribbons of lite flowed out of the wand, twisting into strange runes in the air around him.

With a final jab of is wand in Harry's direction, Voldemort completed the spell, a feral grin twisting his face, thinking of what he could do without the Boy-Who-Lived in the way, believing himself complete in his victory.

In a way, he was right. But he was also wrong. Very, very wrong. Because if he had read the description of the spell, he would have seen something very important. Something that could come back to bite him in the ass later. The spell removed a person from existence. It did not, however, kill them.

As the spell completed, the boy on the floor screamed, as 'Harry James Potter' ceased to exist. A flash of magic took the boy away. Far away from the madman in the cell. Far away from the person that he had been. Far away from anything he remotely considered home. The magic flowed through the world, systematically changing people's memories so that 'Harry James Potter' existed in none of them, removing all evidence of his existence.

History rewrote itself in people's minds. The events of the years since that fateful Halloween night of 1981 changed in an instant.

Voldemort went to the Potters to take revenge for standing up to him, to use them as an example of what happened to those who defied him.

Lily and James Potter had killed him at the cost of their lives.

The world had praised them as heroes.

The Dursleys never had a nephew, as Lily and James had died childless.

On a Halloween night, ten years later, a certain bushy haired Gryffindor had been saved from a troll by an apologetic Ron Weasley and Professor Snape.

Ron, Hermione and Neville had together held off Quirrel from taking the Philosopher's stone from the Mirror of Erised, long enough for Dumbledore to arrive.

Ron fought Tom riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, holding him off long enough for the teachers to arrive while Neville fought off the basilisk, killing it with the Sword of Gryffindor, ending its attacks on the muggleborn students.

Ron sat with Hermione as the mandrake potion took effect, waking her up from her petrification.

Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban to kill Peter Pettigrew, not once thinking of the godson of his that no longer existed. Albus Dumbledore scared off the horde of dementors that came for Sirius, Ron, Hermione and Ginny.

Fred and George passed on the Marauders Map to Ron, as in their eyes, he was the next great prankster of Hogwarts.

The Weasleys took Neville and Hermione to the Quidditch world cup, and Hermione had to stop Neville and Ron from jumping off the Top box to get at the Veela.

Neville's wand was stolen in the Death eater attack at the Campgrounds, and used to cast the Dark mark.

The Triwizard tournament was held at Hogwarts, and Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were chosen as champions. No one remembered the fourteen-year-old champion who had once been there.

Cedric touched the Portkey at the end of the Third task, and was transported to the graveyard.

Voldemort revived himself with Cedric's blood, not Harry's, after which he killed the boy.

Crouch Jr. was caught by Ron and Neville, and Fudge silenced him all the same.

Ginny was tortured by Umbridge with a blood quill, not the Harry potter that no one remembered.

Hermione decided to start the DA, and Neville helped her teach the classes.

Ginny, Ron, Neville, Hermione and Luna, the Ministry Five, headed to the fiasco at the ministry, not one thought spared for their now nonexistent sixth member.

Sirius fell through the veil, and Remus had to be held back from jumping in.

Across the world the magic searched, wiping away all the traces that an extra person could have existed.

A crying, bushy-haired Gryffindor, sitting in her dormitory, suddenly blinked in surprise, not able to remember who she was crying for.

A fiery-haired brother and sister, training with a vengeance, now looked lost as they forgot the reason for their vigorous exercise.

A certain snowy owl suddenly took to the sky from a perch in the Hogwarts Owlery, unable to realize why she had been there, sitting like a common pet.

A white bearded, twinkle-eyed headmaster called off a search for a person none of the searchers could remember existed, and instead began to plan to train the five he believed could make a difference.

A family in a Number 4, Privet Drive in Surrey, a family of three went about their normal, daily lives, which had been normal as far as they could remember.

The Magic came to a certain part-Veela, French Triwizard competitor in a closed vault in Gringotts bank. It tried to reach her, to wipe the traces of a person now forgotten by the world, but couldn't seem to enter the vault. So, the Magic, in its infinite wisdom, shrugged and moved on.

Belongings and photos vanished, letters and papers blanked, anything that could be linked in any way to a Boy-Who-Lived, changed forever. The world lost a media wonder, a war hero, an international celebrity, a savior, a champion, an idol, a friend, a brother, a godson, all in the span of a few moments. And it didn't even know it.

But Fate didn't care about that. The prophecy had been made, and something as trivial as the intended not existing would not stop destiny from playing out. Voldemort had just messed up. Bigtime.

In a dense wood, somewhere in France, on the cold hard ground, a boy opened his vivid green eyes.

He lay on his back, looking up at a canopy of green, as sunlight filtered down in splintered shafts. Through the gaps in the trees, he could see a the light, airy blue of the sky above.

A twig snapped to his left. The boy froze, and slowly turned his head towards the source of the noise.

From his position on his back, he saw a reddish and grey-brown deer step between two trees. It stilled, and gazed at him, before slowly turning away, and trotting back from the direction it came.

The boy took a moment to process what he had seen. The deer was something he had never seen before, but everything else seemed to manifest in him a curious feeling of déjà vu.

He tried to get up onto his feet, but gasped as his body immediately started to scream in pain. So he let himself lie on the forest floor for a bit more. Then he tried again. Much slower this time. Much, much slower. When he got to his feet, he stood for a bit, and took a shaky step forward.

And immediately regretted it as his body screamed in pain. His knees buckled, and he barely managed to grab a nearby tree to keep himself from toppling. Shaking, he stood, clutching the tree for support, and took stock of himself.

He was dressed in a pair of filthy grey shorts. In fact, he was covered with grime, and he could feel his matted, dirty hair. But that wasn't the worst of it.

He was thin. No, thin would be too generous. He was little more than skin and bones at this point. But that was manageable. What was not manageable however, was the patchwork of horrors that was his skin.

His whole body was covered in scars. Long, thin scars covered his hand and chest, and extended into what he could see of his back. Parts of his skin looked recent, new, after the original skin had been flayed off (wait, how did he know that?). multiple small scars covered his ribs and legs, looking like the remnants of spikes that had gone through the skin. His feet, both the sole and the top of the foot, had piercing scars, like something had gone in one side and come out the other. And those were just the newer looking ones.

His multitude of scars held court beside recent, inflamed injuries that lay an angry red, promising to add to his collection of horrors when they healed. His throat burned, and his eyes hurt from the light. He could see the evidence of badly healed fractures all along his body. He felt weak at that moment.

He shook his head slowly, trying to remember how he had gotten here, in this state. Only to promptly find out he couldn't.

He could remember basic things of course. Like what cars were, how math worked, how to walk and run, the like. But anything beyond that was a blank. No, not a blank. A featureless, misty nothingness.

He remembered nothing, nothing at all that could tell him how he had gotten there. No personal history, no family, no friends, no memory of what type of a person he was, where he belonged to.

He leaned against the tree, and brought up his hands to face level. He stared at them, long and hard. They were his hands, but he didn't know what they did. He knew them intimately, but they were foreign to him.

He shook his head again, tried to clear his mind and thought. 'OK. OK. This is fine. I can get through this. Just list what I know. Take stock of my situation. Then decide what needs to be done.'

He didn't know where the plan came from, just that it felt right.

'OK. I am in a forest somewhere. I'm in a bad state. My body looks like its gone through a wringer. I have no memory of how I got here. My name is….'

Then he froze, a terrifying realization going through his head. He frantically searched through his memories, begging, pleading for it to not be true.

It was.

He couldn't remember his name. He didn't know his name.

He dropped to his knees, looked up at the sky, and SCREAMED.

It had been a week since he had woken up in the forest. Or at least, the boy thought it had been a week.

Timekeeping was….. hard.

He'd spent a few hours there, crying and screaming his throat out for the life he had lost. He didn't know what the life had been, buy all he knew was that it was gone.

After a warm night on the forest floor, he had decided to pity himself only after he got back to civilization.

So picked a direction and stuck to it. On the way he had found a berry bush. He didn't know if they were safe to eat. He didn't care. He ate them anyway.

He threw up a few hours later. But he ate again. And again. Till his stomach could handle it.

Halfway through the second day he found a stream. He drank his fill, and managed to wash the filth off. Then, he decided to follow the flow downstream

He found fruits by day, and ate and walked for long stretches. At night he curled up on the ground and slept.

Days blurred together, and weird things kept popping up. He had to run from a plant with creeping vines that he could have sworn tried to eat him. It gave him a weird sense of déjà vu. He had heard a hissing voice to his left one day, muttering about how one couldn't get a good hunt in these days, but when he had searched, here had been nothing but a long, brown snake.

He had also managed to see, in a clearing in the morning, a majestic white equine with a single, silver horn upon its head. It had been a beautiful and majestic sight. But unicorns weren't real, so he chalked it up to delirium.

After a fortnight or so of walking, the trees had begun to thin in the path of the stream ahead of him.

Reinvigorated, he had pushed on, and, after a few more hours of walking, the boy stumbled out of the forest. He stopped and stared. Ahead of him, the stream burbled and flowed into what appeared to a beautiful garden, beside which were placed a few greenhouses. In the distance, past an expansive grounds, a majestic mansion stood, commandeering his gaze.

A dull thump sounded to his right, and he whipped his head around to see a book, fallen on the ground. Then his eyes wandered to the person who had dropped that book.

She stood there, in a powder blue sundress that hugged her beautiful, perfect form. Her face was delicate and gorgeous, with long platinum blond hair, that was done up in a ponytail. Her blue eyes met his, and he couldn't help but be lost in them. She was a vision of beauty, even in her shock.

Nothing could have prepared him for what was next.

As her eyes met his, they widened. Her mouth dropped open in shock. She spoke only one word.

"'Arry?"

(A/N): There. Finally done. As I said, this was a one shot that happened to occur to me when I thought about what would happen if a character would lose who they were, maybe as a side effect of a spell. A loss of the person they were before. It actually started from the line 'He stared at his hands. He knew them intimately, but they were foreign to him.'

My thought process works in weird ways.

I'll be holding a poll, to see if I should make it a two shot, with a concluding chapter, a small multi chapter work, or leave it as a one shot.

So, its up to you readers to decide!

Also, Gift of tongues chapter 1 will come up on 9th or 10th April. For sure. This was just a way to get rid of some of the distracting ideas.

Any reviews or constructive criticism is welcome. I'd love to hear how I could improve one shots like this. So feel free to speak up!

I hope you enjoyed!

Manrann