Chapter 1
Harry sat silently in the back seat, staring out the window as the train station faded too quickly from view. Gradually, his focus moved from the sights outside to his own ghostly reflection in the car window. He sighed softly, already missing the easy camaraderie he shared with Ron and Hermione. Fifth year at Hogwarts had come and gone, too quickly for most of it but in some parts not quickly enough... He shook his head slightly, causing some of his messy black hair to fall into his eyes. Brushing it away impatiently, he listened carefully for any sign of discomfort from Hedwig whom Vernon had insisted upon stuffing into the car boot, cage and all. Harry had tried to reason that there would be more room if she were allowed to fly but Vernon would have none of that. After all, what might the neighbours think if they saw a white owl flying after their car?
Luckily, Uncle Vernon had grudgingly allowed Harry to keep his school bag inside the car with him, keeping a suspicious eye on it as if it might do something "unnatural." Uncle Vernon need not have worried, however, as he only had a few sheets of parchment, two quills, and an inkbottle inside of it. His wand was safely in a compartment inside his trunk behind his Hogwarts robes. And even though he might have been sorely tempted to use it on his only living relatives, the threat of being expelled from Hogwarts was enough to quiet any vengeful thoughts. Harry made a mental note to go to Diagon Alley in the summer before term started to get fitted for new robes. His old ones were starting to feel tight around the shoulders and they were no longer Hogwarts regulatory length on his quickly growing frame. In fact, he had gotten a lot taller than he had anticipated; making his already thin frame become almost skeletal. His face had lost it's boyish roundness over the year and he had looked at himself with surprise in the lavatory mirror the last day of classes to see that his face had gotten slightly longer, gaining a slimness of features that Ron had jokingly referred to as "Snape-ish." It hadn't helped that he had neglected to cut his hair during the year and it was now longer than it ever had been. Harry grimaced inwardly at the memory. He had not been amused at all by Ron's teasing....
Dudley, by the slightly curious and jealous eye he cast upon his cousin, had noticed Harry's change in height as well. Harry didn't much mind getting taller or any of the other changes associated with becoming an adult, but he wasn't particularly looking forward to speaking at any length because his voice had, over the school year, acquired the embarrassing habit of cracking every so often. He could just imagine what his relatives would make out of that; he could almost see the vicious glee in their faces. Unconsciously his hand grasped his school bag tighter; inside it was the beginning of a letter he planned to send to Dumbledore once he had the chance. It might be his salvation this summer and he had every intention of sending it away with Hedwig, whether there were bars or no bars on his windows.
* * *
He had been staring at the picture hanging on the wall of his hospital room for nearly an hour. It still bothered him that he couldn't tell what was wrong with the picture of a father tossing a giggling child high into the air but now he stared without seeing it. He was thinking furiously, desperately trying to recall anything before those first few moments of consciousness when he had awakened in the hospital . . . but there was nothing.
When he had looked in the mirror the other day, the shock had sent him to his knees and over the toilet. Terror had wrapped icy fingers around his heart when he realized that he did not recognise the face staring back at him. The obsidian black eyes and hooked beak of a nose set in a pale, narrow face framed by greasy black hair were as unfamiliar to him as the nurse had been that first moment. He did not know his name, his past, or even his age. Everything he had been was gone. He had no idea where in the world he was for that matter. The nurse had told him kindly that he was in St. Christopher's Hospital, London, when he asked. But if he had ever heard of this place before, he no longer remembered it now.
The memory of his first look into the mirror and the subsequent revelation still sent waves of revulsion rippling down his spine but he forced his stomach to behave. He had finally been able to keep down solid food this morning and had no intention of giving it up, no matter how unpleasing it was to the palate.
"Good afternoon, Christopher!" Staff Nurse Dawson cheerfully addressed him as she walked in, a carrier bag in her arms. He had been unable to hide the fact that he no longer had a past or a name from Staff Nurse Dawson, the nurse who was in charge of him. Although he found it humiliating to admit, he had been forced to say a stiff, "I don't know" in reply to her query about his name. Concerned, she'd had the doctor run a few tests on more machines he didn't recognise, but in the end, the doctor confessed to the patient that he did not know why such a severe case of amnesia should result from a mere concussion.
The doctor had advised him to relax as much as possible because stress would certainly not help the process of regaining his memory. When asked what hopefully temporary name he would like, he had hesitated, unsure until Staff Nurse Dawson suggested "Christopher," as it was easy to remember. After a moment's thought, he had shrugged and pronounced it "suitable" for the time being. Now she set the bag on the bed and pulled out some clothes, laying them neatly on the blanket. Christopher looked at her with narrowed black eyes that she thought were vaguely disturbing. They reminded her too much of a strict teacher she'd had back when she was a girl at school....
"Nothing?" she asked hopefully, referring to his memory.
He snorted derisively. "Nothing," he replied shortly.
She sighed and continued to unpack her bag. With Christopher's stay at the hospital nearing an end, she had hoped that they might be able to identify him correctly so he could go home. But the police had records of no missing person matching his description. Even after they'd suggested a fingerprinting, it had come up with nothing, which ruled out having a criminal record. So he's not a criminal, she thought, eyeing the scowling, sallow face of her patient; or at least he's never been caught. With difficulty, she shoved aside the mental image of the disturbing tattoo he had on his inner left forearm. A friend of hers who worked in the Accident and Emergency ward had helped the doctor set the arm and encase it in plaster. She had later told Staff Nurse Dawson about the angry dark lines of a skull with a snake emerging like a tongue from its evilly grinning mouth. . . .
He had nowhere to go, at least not until the couple that had found him lying unconscious in the street had stepped forward and inquired about his well-being. Staff Nurse Dawson had taken a leap of faith by informing the social worker on Christopher's case about the middle-aged couple. The social worker, a Ms. Prism, interviewed them and after she had told them that there was no way to determine when "Christopher" would get his memory back, the couple offered the "poor man" a room in their suburban flat if he hadn't regained his memory by the time he was released. Naturally, Ms. Prism viewed other accommodation possibilities but eventually Mr. and Mrs. Childe were granted care of Christopher.
Ms. Prism had also supplied a change of clothes for him from the spare clothing ward in the hospital after examining what he had been found in and declaring it "appalling." Christopher had been found in nothing but filthy black robes that reminded Staff Nurse Dawson somehow of academic raiment. Like the robes, the plain black trousers and old-fashioned dress shirt underneath were torn in a few places and stained with blood.
Coming out of her reverie, Staff Nurse Dawson pulled out the last item in the bag; a long, narrow stick, polished to a dark gleam except for a few scratches and nicks along its smooth surface. She thought it looked like one of those batons that conductors of orchestras used, but never having been close enough to see one properly, she wasn't sure.
"Is that... mine?" he asked hesitantly, picking up the stick but appearing not to recognise it.
Staff Nurse Dawson shrugged. "I suppose so. The couple who found you said that it was with you."
Christopher opened his mouth to ask what it was but judging by the curious gleam in her eye, she didn't know either. How strange that he felt like he should know it but he was unable to place the thing in his memory. Somehow the stick's slight weight was comforting, it's contour familiar in his hand even though he had no idea what it was for.
"Anything else?" he asked, his long fingers still caressing the dark wood in hopes of releasing a memory.
"This," she replied pointing at the black item on the bed which, despite its neatly folded appearance, had a slight reek to it. Dried blood, wet dirt, and a faint spicy odour he couldn't identify.
Abruptly and without warning, Christopher remembered something. He was younger and was looking at a large black cauldron in front of him, the contents of which were bubbling. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction and there the memory ended. He strained and replayed the memory in his mind but he could remember no more.
"Is that it?" he asked, feeling Staff Nurse Dawson's curious gaze on him. She nodded affirmatively.
Great; a filthy rag and a stick to find his past with. Just great.
* * *
Later that day, he was offered shampoo and soap and asked if he felt up to taking a shower. He eagerly accepted, feeling that perhaps a wash would help him return to some sense of normalcy. It was awkward but eventually Christopher managed to thoroughly wash the grime from his black hair while holding his broken arm safely out of the shower's aim. He also examined the rest of his body superficially, noting some tender bruises he hadn't seen before along his ribcage. Rinsing the last of the soapsuds from his body, he sighed in satisfaction, feeling the filth of the last few days wash into the drain.
Drying off in front of the mirror he glared at the disturbingly unfamiliar reflection. If only I could remember....
Harry sat silently in the back seat, staring out the window as the train station faded too quickly from view. Gradually, his focus moved from the sights outside to his own ghostly reflection in the car window. He sighed softly, already missing the easy camaraderie he shared with Ron and Hermione. Fifth year at Hogwarts had come and gone, too quickly for most of it but in some parts not quickly enough... He shook his head slightly, causing some of his messy black hair to fall into his eyes. Brushing it away impatiently, he listened carefully for any sign of discomfort from Hedwig whom Vernon had insisted upon stuffing into the car boot, cage and all. Harry had tried to reason that there would be more room if she were allowed to fly but Vernon would have none of that. After all, what might the neighbours think if they saw a white owl flying after their car?
Luckily, Uncle Vernon had grudgingly allowed Harry to keep his school bag inside the car with him, keeping a suspicious eye on it as if it might do something "unnatural." Uncle Vernon need not have worried, however, as he only had a few sheets of parchment, two quills, and an inkbottle inside of it. His wand was safely in a compartment inside his trunk behind his Hogwarts robes. And even though he might have been sorely tempted to use it on his only living relatives, the threat of being expelled from Hogwarts was enough to quiet any vengeful thoughts. Harry made a mental note to go to Diagon Alley in the summer before term started to get fitted for new robes. His old ones were starting to feel tight around the shoulders and they were no longer Hogwarts regulatory length on his quickly growing frame. In fact, he had gotten a lot taller than he had anticipated; making his already thin frame become almost skeletal. His face had lost it's boyish roundness over the year and he had looked at himself with surprise in the lavatory mirror the last day of classes to see that his face had gotten slightly longer, gaining a slimness of features that Ron had jokingly referred to as "Snape-ish." It hadn't helped that he had neglected to cut his hair during the year and it was now longer than it ever had been. Harry grimaced inwardly at the memory. He had not been amused at all by Ron's teasing....
Dudley, by the slightly curious and jealous eye he cast upon his cousin, had noticed Harry's change in height as well. Harry didn't much mind getting taller or any of the other changes associated with becoming an adult, but he wasn't particularly looking forward to speaking at any length because his voice had, over the school year, acquired the embarrassing habit of cracking every so often. He could just imagine what his relatives would make out of that; he could almost see the vicious glee in their faces. Unconsciously his hand grasped his school bag tighter; inside it was the beginning of a letter he planned to send to Dumbledore once he had the chance. It might be his salvation this summer and he had every intention of sending it away with Hedwig, whether there were bars or no bars on his windows.
* * *
He had been staring at the picture hanging on the wall of his hospital room for nearly an hour. It still bothered him that he couldn't tell what was wrong with the picture of a father tossing a giggling child high into the air but now he stared without seeing it. He was thinking furiously, desperately trying to recall anything before those first few moments of consciousness when he had awakened in the hospital . . . but there was nothing.
When he had looked in the mirror the other day, the shock had sent him to his knees and over the toilet. Terror had wrapped icy fingers around his heart when he realized that he did not recognise the face staring back at him. The obsidian black eyes and hooked beak of a nose set in a pale, narrow face framed by greasy black hair were as unfamiliar to him as the nurse had been that first moment. He did not know his name, his past, or even his age. Everything he had been was gone. He had no idea where in the world he was for that matter. The nurse had told him kindly that he was in St. Christopher's Hospital, London, when he asked. But if he had ever heard of this place before, he no longer remembered it now.
The memory of his first look into the mirror and the subsequent revelation still sent waves of revulsion rippling down his spine but he forced his stomach to behave. He had finally been able to keep down solid food this morning and had no intention of giving it up, no matter how unpleasing it was to the palate.
"Good afternoon, Christopher!" Staff Nurse Dawson cheerfully addressed him as she walked in, a carrier bag in her arms. He had been unable to hide the fact that he no longer had a past or a name from Staff Nurse Dawson, the nurse who was in charge of him. Although he found it humiliating to admit, he had been forced to say a stiff, "I don't know" in reply to her query about his name. Concerned, she'd had the doctor run a few tests on more machines he didn't recognise, but in the end, the doctor confessed to the patient that he did not know why such a severe case of amnesia should result from a mere concussion.
The doctor had advised him to relax as much as possible because stress would certainly not help the process of regaining his memory. When asked what hopefully temporary name he would like, he had hesitated, unsure until Staff Nurse Dawson suggested "Christopher," as it was easy to remember. After a moment's thought, he had shrugged and pronounced it "suitable" for the time being. Now she set the bag on the bed and pulled out some clothes, laying them neatly on the blanket. Christopher looked at her with narrowed black eyes that she thought were vaguely disturbing. They reminded her too much of a strict teacher she'd had back when she was a girl at school....
"Nothing?" she asked hopefully, referring to his memory.
He snorted derisively. "Nothing," he replied shortly.
She sighed and continued to unpack her bag. With Christopher's stay at the hospital nearing an end, she had hoped that they might be able to identify him correctly so he could go home. But the police had records of no missing person matching his description. Even after they'd suggested a fingerprinting, it had come up with nothing, which ruled out having a criminal record. So he's not a criminal, she thought, eyeing the scowling, sallow face of her patient; or at least he's never been caught. With difficulty, she shoved aside the mental image of the disturbing tattoo he had on his inner left forearm. A friend of hers who worked in the Accident and Emergency ward had helped the doctor set the arm and encase it in plaster. She had later told Staff Nurse Dawson about the angry dark lines of a skull with a snake emerging like a tongue from its evilly grinning mouth. . . .
He had nowhere to go, at least not until the couple that had found him lying unconscious in the street had stepped forward and inquired about his well-being. Staff Nurse Dawson had taken a leap of faith by informing the social worker on Christopher's case about the middle-aged couple. The social worker, a Ms. Prism, interviewed them and after she had told them that there was no way to determine when "Christopher" would get his memory back, the couple offered the "poor man" a room in their suburban flat if he hadn't regained his memory by the time he was released. Naturally, Ms. Prism viewed other accommodation possibilities but eventually Mr. and Mrs. Childe were granted care of Christopher.
Ms. Prism had also supplied a change of clothes for him from the spare clothing ward in the hospital after examining what he had been found in and declaring it "appalling." Christopher had been found in nothing but filthy black robes that reminded Staff Nurse Dawson somehow of academic raiment. Like the robes, the plain black trousers and old-fashioned dress shirt underneath were torn in a few places and stained with blood.
Coming out of her reverie, Staff Nurse Dawson pulled out the last item in the bag; a long, narrow stick, polished to a dark gleam except for a few scratches and nicks along its smooth surface. She thought it looked like one of those batons that conductors of orchestras used, but never having been close enough to see one properly, she wasn't sure.
"Is that... mine?" he asked hesitantly, picking up the stick but appearing not to recognise it.
Staff Nurse Dawson shrugged. "I suppose so. The couple who found you said that it was with you."
Christopher opened his mouth to ask what it was but judging by the curious gleam in her eye, she didn't know either. How strange that he felt like he should know it but he was unable to place the thing in his memory. Somehow the stick's slight weight was comforting, it's contour familiar in his hand even though he had no idea what it was for.
"Anything else?" he asked, his long fingers still caressing the dark wood in hopes of releasing a memory.
"This," she replied pointing at the black item on the bed which, despite its neatly folded appearance, had a slight reek to it. Dried blood, wet dirt, and a faint spicy odour he couldn't identify.
Abruptly and without warning, Christopher remembered something. He was younger and was looking at a large black cauldron in front of him, the contents of which were bubbling. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction and there the memory ended. He strained and replayed the memory in his mind but he could remember no more.
"Is that it?" he asked, feeling Staff Nurse Dawson's curious gaze on him. She nodded affirmatively.
Great; a filthy rag and a stick to find his past with. Just great.
* * *
Later that day, he was offered shampoo and soap and asked if he felt up to taking a shower. He eagerly accepted, feeling that perhaps a wash would help him return to some sense of normalcy. It was awkward but eventually Christopher managed to thoroughly wash the grime from his black hair while holding his broken arm safely out of the shower's aim. He also examined the rest of his body superficially, noting some tender bruises he hadn't seen before along his ribcage. Rinsing the last of the soapsuds from his body, he sighed in satisfaction, feeling the filth of the last few days wash into the drain.
Drying off in front of the mirror he glared at the disturbingly unfamiliar reflection. If only I could remember....