A/N: The first chapter in what I hope will be a relatively short multichap. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

Thanks and love as always to my stunning betas and all the people who support me when I come up with ridiculous.

Word Count: 3,637

Chapter 1 - Kidnapped By A Serial Killer

"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."

L. P. Hartley

Harry was fifteen minutes early. He'd been so paranoid about forgetting to attend his first support group session that he'd left the studio apartment he was renting ridiculously early. The walk through London had been nice enough until, predictably, it started to rain. All he had been able to think, the whole way to St. Mungo's, was that it would certainly be ironic if he had forgotten when the Support Group of Amnesiacs began.

A Healer showed him where the support groups met and advised him to make a cup of tea, whilst he waited.

So far, Harry had been highly amused at just how stereotypical Britain had been. Of course, he'd always wanted to visit, but this was his first time. He'd had fish and chips, more tea than he'd ever ingested before in his life, and strong pints of ale. That, as well as other horrifically touristic things such as the Muggle and Magical sites that were in his guidebook.

The Tate Modern was on his agenda for tomorrow.

Just as Harry finished pouring milk into a somewhat disappointing looking tea, one of the doors opened and people started coming out in small groups, talking with each other. Judging by some of the more sombre expressions, Harry assumed it was a different support group, an assumption which was confirmed when he heard a quiet voice swear lightly behind him.

"I really need a cup of tea after that. Oh, sorry mate."

Harry turned to smile at the man, happy to explain that he was the one standing in the way and hogging the charmed kettle when he faltered. He knew that face. Something in his face must have given away his sudden panic because the red-headed man pulled back slightly, a look of wariness in his eyes.

"You alright?"

"Yes," Harry said immediately, "yes, sorry you just looked like… Have we met before?"

The man assessed him with sharp blue eyes, still looking a little uncertain.

"No, I don't think so. I'm pretty good with faces, less so with names."

"My name's Harry."

"Ron, nice to meet you."

Harry stood aside as Ron made a cup of tea but he couldn't stop staring, his heart thundering in his chest.

"Actually," he said slowly and Ron turned his head towards him. "I was wondering if you had a moment? You see… well, I'm here because I have amnesia."

Ron's eyes widened, as most people's did whenever Harry explained about his condition. They walked over to the window and Harry exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, I can remember magic and things but basically nothing of my life. Whoever Obliviated me did a really good job. I've just come to London after living abroad because St Mungo's is renowned worldwide for its advances in mental healing. They have a support group too, it's my first time today… Anyway, the reason I'm bringing this up is… well, it's probably better I show you if you don't have anywhere to rush off too?"

"Not at all. That sounds really rough, I can't even imagine."

Harry shrugged and dug through his satchel to pull out his sketchbook.

"It's all I've known."

Thinking it was better to just be blunt rather than continue to draw it out, he flipped through the pages until he got to the second portrait.

Ron stiffened next to him as they both looked at the drawing. Harry had done it in pencil, experimenting with shading but it was unmistakably Ron.

"There are more," Harry said, feeling a mixture of excited and nervous. This was his first ever potential lead on who he was.

He kept going through the pages, showing Ron a few locations in London he'd never been too as well as other pictures of Ron, one in pen, another in watercolours. Ron reached for the book and Harry pulled back a little, instinctively.

"Don't touch my things. Sorry, but they're all I own that have any clues as to who I am."

"No worries mate. You're a good artist, I've never been able to draw myself. I tried to write but then my Dad said to me: 'Writing is the hardest way to earn a living, with the possible exception of wrestling alligators.' and it put me off, to be honest."

He took in a breath, talking fast enough to make Harry wonder if he was nervous. It must be eerie, seeing a picture of yourself drawn by a stranger. Disappointment had settled deep in his stomach as he'd watched Ron's face. There'd hadn't been even a flicker of recognition.

"Bloody hell, this is a lot to take in," Ron said, a strange note in his voice. "Do you smoke?"

Harry shook his head, a little surprised by the subject change.

"I just think I could really do with a cigarette; it'll help me get my head around it. When's your group session start? If you have the time to come down to the front with me, we can sort out meeting up or something."

Harry checked his watch — there was still eight minutes to go and so he accompanied Ron down in the lift and out into the damp London air. He turned and saw Ron, not holding a packet of cigarettes or a light, but with his wand pointing directly at Harry.

"Stupefy."

Everything went black.

Ron's heart was racing. He had apparated with the man — 'Harry' — away to his house and swiftly tied him to a chair, using as many containing and restraining spells as he could think of. Then he'd slammed the office door shut, leaving him in there and was currently trying not to have a panic attack.

It couldn't be his Harry, except it had to be. The man looked nothing like him - he had hazel eyes, very short brown hair and was white, for starters. His Harry had had richly tanned skin that had contrasted so starkly against Ron's milk bottle complexion and then there were the iconic green eyes, the messy black hair. The scar, which had been white and zigzagged, several connecting lines just like lightning.

None of that was there.

But the drawings… as Harry had flipped through his sketchbook, Ron hadn't just seen portraits of himself eerily drawn by a stranger. There had been Wormtail back when he was Scabbers and liked to eat Bertie Botts Beans. A side profile of Hermione, the Ford Anglia in the sky, Sirius as Padfoot… it was too coincidental.

Going to the kitchen drawer, Ron dug around and pulled the small, square mobile phone Hermione had bought from him out with two fingers, peering at it sceptically. She, Dean and Seamus had all tried to teach him how to 'text' but Ron could never remember just how many times you had to press a 3 to get an E or how to make a space, so they'd resorted to putting important numbers in on 'speed dial'. He'd never had to use it until now but now was an emergency.

Holding down the button with number one on it, Ron waited anxiously. The ringing felt loud, and then, Hermione's voice was coming through the phone.

"Ron? Is everything okay? You never use this phone."

"No, Hermione, it's not. I need you to come to my house; it's an emergency!" He was aware that he probably sounded hysterical and he was shouting, even though Dean and Hermione had told him he didn't need to shout down a phone. He needed her help, there was no way Ron would be able to do this alone. She apparated right into his living room and Ron spun, shooting off a stunner before he'd even realised what he'd done.

She deflected it with a wandless, silent shield, her brown eyes wide.

"What's going on? Are you in danger?"

It had been five years.

Five years since the Second Wizarding War had officially ended; five years since they had both felt that dull certainty that they might die at any moment and yet it all came flooding back so effortlessly. He could see the adrenaline hit Hermione, how she drew out her wand and looked prepared for anything. He could feel it himself. Just like before, they were in sync and ready to take on the world — except now it was different, and the third member of their trio had come back from the dead. Taking a slow deep breath, he motioned at her to calm down, pocketed his wand and sat down heavily on a bar stool, before standing up almost immediately and pacing.

"So I was at St Mungo's," he began, and Hermione nodded.

"Support Group?" she clarified, looking as though she wanted to ask for more details. Ron hadn't been very forthcoming with how it was going, attending group therapy. Thankfully, she let him continue, and so Ron launched into an explanation of how he'd gone to get tea, and there'd been a guy who had been uncomfortably persistent. Then Ron, with wild gesticulations, brought up the sketchbook.

"I have it here, you have to see it."

"You stole it from him? Ronald!"

He shook his head "Not really. He's stunned and tied up in the office so I can give it back to him."

He knew the sarcasm wasn't appreciated but Ron could barely organise his thoughts. Ignoring Hermione's exclamation of shock, he grabbed the sketchbook he'd left on the kitchen side and held it out to her insistently.

"Apparently he was in St. Mungo's to go to a support group for people with amnesia. Then he tells me that I look familiar or something and shows me these pictures."

Hermione went through them slowly. Ron could see the way her body had stiffened and felt some small sliver of relief. He had been worried that he had jumped to conclusions, that he was being paranoid again, going to extremes again to try and get Harry back. But when she raised her warm brown eyes to meet his, he could read her thoughts all over her face.

"You think it's him?"

Ron nodded and then hesitated.

"Except he looks nothing like Harry and the few spells I tried that would get rid of a glamour or disguise didn't work. Plus there was something in his eyes Min when he was talking to me. He looked desperate, hopeful… he wanted me to have answers, to help him. He definitely didn't recognise me."

She pulled a face as he used her nickname, glancing away in thought.

"Perhaps Harry's changed; he was always a good liar."

Ron gave her a look.

"That's bollocks and we both know it. We could read Harry like a book."

Hermione sighed, looking back down at the drawing in front of her, of a Hippogriff with two small figures riding it as it flew in the sky.

"Okay. Show me and we'll work this out."

She drew her wand as she spoke and Ron gave her shoulder a squeeze, before leading her to the office and dismantling the locking charms. Harry was still unconscious and Hermione rolled her eyes at the ropes he'd used to tie him up. Then she started to cast. Ron just wanted to hug her. He knew that she thought Harry was dead but even so, she was going to try her hardest to help him. They'd gone through a lot after Harry had disappeared, including a very tumultuous and short-lived attempt to date; they hadn't even made it to two weeks before calling it off. She was his best friend, another sister, and they'd do anything for each other.

Ron only recognised two of the seven spells he counted, then he tuned out. Eventually, she gave a snarl of frustration, her hands going to her hair.

"It just doesn't make sense!"

Ron chewed on his lip and then walked towards the unconscious body.

"I'm going to search him, maybe that'll give us more of a clue."

There wasn't much in the pockets of his robes: a packet of soft mints, several pens and pencils, a map of the Muggle tube, a guidebook to Magical Sites to See and then Ron pulled out a wand and both he and Hermione fell silent.

It was the Elder Wand.

"Well, that explains why I can't remove the disguise or whatever it is. My wand isn't as strong as the Elder Wand."

"It also proves that it's Harry!" Ron said and Hermione shook her head.

"No. You know as well as me that the Elder Wand can be won. What if this person beat Harry in a duel? Then they took the notebook to pretend to be him or something? What if—"

"Don't you dare say he's dead! No. This is Harry, I'm bloody well sure and I'm going to figure out whatever the fuck is going on."

They stared at each other, Ron suddenly desperate to hit something. It had to be Harry. Something softened in Hermione's face and she nodded slightly.

"Okay. I'm going to use this wand and see if I can remove the charm, or whatever he's done. Then we'll wake him up and talk to him. If he has been Obliviated, well, we'll get to that hurdle when we come to it."

"You can't reverse obliviations. You remember Lockhart, what he did to people. Merlin, nevermind what actually happened to him."

"Actually I think he had a particularly adverse experience because your wand exploded too, so the raw magic—" Hermione stopped herself as Ron gave her a pointed look. "Fine."

The first four spells she attempted didn't work. Ron could tell she didn't particularly like the wand and kept grimacing. Harry stirred, opening his eyes groggily and peering at them both and then as he focussed on them and drew in a sharp breath, Harry's hair began to grow and darken. Despite it being exactly what Ron wanted, he stumbled back as Harry's skin darkened, the lightning scar spreading across his forehead, his eyes changing shades to the vibrant green that still haunted Ron's dreams.

He swore and Hermione put a shaking hand to her mouth.

"Harry," she breathed.

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing? Untie me and let me go!"

"Harry, you know that you know us, even if you can't remember," Hermione said calmly, pulling herself together. "Why else would you have drawn us? We grew up with you Harry. We know who you are and we want to help."

"So you kidnapped me?" Harry asked, glaring at Ron accusatorily.

"You were dead! I thought you were some psycho who was pretending to be Harry. What happened to you? Why were you wearing a disguise? You know what, don't. Don't explain any of this. I'd rather not know. I can't fucking handle this."

Ron waved his wand, banishing the ropes, and then left the room before he let himself break down. He wasn't sure if he was going to scream or cry. It was all wrong. This was not how Harry was supposed to come back, unable to recognise them, his brain scrambled up.

Ron didn't leave, he couldn't leave. 'Not again,' the voice in the back of his mind whispered 'Don't leave him again.' So he sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, and let the helplessness wash over him.

Harry got to his feet immediately, watching the girl warily. She was holding his wand but as soon as Harry glanced at it, she offered it to him, still looking at him very calmly. It was her calmness that made him even angrier.

"I'm going to ask again, who the fuck you both think you are? Whether you know who I am or not, nothing gives you the right to kidnap me, tie me up, do Merlin knows what to me," he snarled. "I'm sorry if Ron's having a bad day, but he hasn't opened his eyes to see the different coloured skin on his body!"

Harry's voice was rising, the sarcasm thick, and he saw her flinch but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd dreamt of a moment where someone would recognise him, could tell him who he was but this felt wrong. He snatched the wand off her, feeling some comfort in being able to defend himself and pointed it directly at her.

"My name is Hermione, I'm your friend. You were wearing some sort of glamour Harry. The person you are now, that's how you actually look."

"Is this something you and your boyfriend get off on? Manipulating and exploiting vulnerable people?"

"Oh God, Ron's not my boyfriend! We're family," Hermione snorted, apparently not phased at all when his wand shot off dark red sparks as Harry's rage heightened. "Look, if you'll just calm down then we can talk. Please, Harry."

"No bloody way."

He was ready to disapparate when he realised that he didn't have his bag or sketchbook. Keeping his wand levelled in her direction Harry watched her but she just put her hands up in surrender.

"Harry, don't do something you're going to regret. We're your friends, your family. Let us just explain."

"You lost that chance when Ron shot a stunner in my face."

Harry pulled the door open to see Ron slumped on the sofa, his head in his hands. For a split second, he felt a pang of guilt, but then he remembered how the ropes had chafed on his wrists and summoned his stuff. Ron's head snapped up, sudden panic evident on his face and Harry disapparated as soon as he snatched his sketchbook and bag from the air.

He landed and stumbled slightly, ears ringing. It was cold in his apartment from where he'd left the window open but the silence and open spaces made Harry automatically relax.

"Merlin's balls," he murmured to himself, trying to catch his breath. "What just happened? How the hell did I start the day going to a support group and ended up getting abducted by a serial killer or something."

He dropped his stuff on the floor and headed to the bathroom, anger bleeding into some panic as he stared into the mirror at an unrecognisable face. His eyes were now green and his hair black and scruffy looking. Harry couldn't decide what was more disturbing, the fact that his skin was now a deep brown or that he had a fantastic scar across his head. Stark white, it looked like lightning as it forked and spread from his hairline.

"They were probably talking while I was out of it," he mumbled to himself, long used to being the only person around to talk too, "'Oh no. We'll kill him together. If he looks different, no one will know.'"

And yet, the more Harry stared and prodded this new body, waves of deja vu kept washing over him. Chewing on his lip, he opened up one of his trunks and started to pull out canvas he'd painted years before until he found the one he wanted.

It was a boy that looked eerily familiar to the man he was now. That boy was surrounded by a white Patronus, a stag and there was a large deerhound type dog at his feet.

"Is it really me? Have I been wearing a glamour all this time without knowing? That can't be possible… I'm crazy enough as it is, talking to myself all the time. Being in disguise without knowing it is ridiculous," he muttered even as he drew out his wand again.

He had never cast a Patronus before but Harry knew the theory. He knew a lot about magic, even dark magic which had always confused him — why could he remember that and his name, but not his birthday or his childhood, anything?

He straightened up, closing his eyes to try and focus on something other than the residual panic coursing through his brains. The Patronus Charm needed you to recall a happy memory. Just as he'd decided on one, two loud cracks of apparition made Harry fling a shield charm up, an automatic reflex.

Ron and the dark-skinned girl with wild frizzy hair were in his studio apartment. She opened her mouth to speak but Harry didn't give her time. He didn't care why they had followed him, but he was going to fight for his freedom.

"Oppugno."

The paintbrushes in the jar closest to where he'd cast leapt up and flung themselves at Ron who yelled. Hermione shot a non-verbal spell at him and Harry dodged, shooting two disarming charms and a stunner.

"Reducto!"

His latest painting blew up in such a dramatic fashion that the three of them stared in shock.

"You fucking bastard, I spent weeks on that. It's a gift for a friend."

"We're your friends!" Ron shouted and Harry stood up from where he'd crouched behind the sofa.

"You just destroyed my latest piece! You kidnapped me and tied me to a chair! You did Merlin knows what to make me look like this! If that's what you both think friends do I'm sure as hell glad I forgot all about you!"

Harry saw them both flinch, Ron in particular paling at his words.

"I'm sorry, Harry, that we invaded your privacy and traced you, but we aren't leaving you, not again. If you sit down, I have proof that we are who we say we are — that we're your family."

Harry narrowed his eyes sharply, still gripping his wand. Ron looked at Hermione, apparently just as confused as Harry was.

"Explain. I want you both to put your wands down too, by the charcoals."

Ron complied immediately to Harry's inward surprise.

"We're going to show you some of our memories Harry, of the years you've missed," Hermione said simply. "I'm going to show you who you are."

A/N: Prompts and Challenges:

Assignment #4: Wizarding Geography - Task #2: Write about joining forces.

Character Appreciation: (setting) St Mungo's

Lyric Alley: I'm a little bit angry

Count Your Buttons: 'A Matter of Trust - Billy Joel'

TV Show of the Month: Angela Montenegro: (AU) Artist, (dialogue) "Oh no. We'll kill him together." (item) sketchbook

Liza's Loves: Mind Eraser - Write about someone being obliviated

Jenny's Jovial Quotations: "Writing is the hardest way to earn a living, with the possible exception of wrestling alligators." - William Saroyan

Gobstones: White Stone - Faith - (au) Artist, (object) Paintbrush, (dialogue) (dialogue) "Don't touch my things."

The Insane House: Dialogue - "You know what, don't. Just don't explain any of this. I'd rather not know."

The 365 Prompt Challenge: 329. Trope - Amnesia

Play More Cards!: 32. Cheat - write about deception

The Forty Days Challenge: Write about someone coming back from the dead.

Scavenger Hunt: Write a fic featuring Hermione Granger as a main character.

Serpent Day: 63. Urutu - (setting) St. Mungo's

Also this isn't a prompt but I used this quote as inspiration for the overall title of this multichap. I love Van Gogh:

"And the memories of all we have loved stay and come back to us in the evening of our life. They are not dead but sleep, and it is well to gather a treasure of them." - Van Gogh 'The Letters of Van Gogh'