Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.

a/n

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter four - persistence of miscommunication

In science, the fundamental law in almost every field— the thou shalt not tamper with or thou shalt pay with many, many a terrible grades *cough* Will *cough*— is that in this universe, energy cannot be created or destroyed. The natural law of existence of energy seems to have parallels in Christianity's idea of the existence of a soul and the Asian concept of chi.

For example, when a child is created, we generally say it was created from a union of two gametes to form a zygote, and onward. But how does the cells, the organelles, the organs, and the organ systems act together for support this living being? For all of these bodies to synchronize, a centralized energy required for which there are many different explanations of where it was derived (biologists say its nerves and food. I'm sort of inclined to believe them too, but I just had this neat idea so I'm going to pretend I don't know that), thus the concept of a spiritual embodiment within people (animals, if that theory is applied, should therefore have souls too. And trees. And maybe even mountains if we really try to stretch it. Maybe we should stop digging for oil).

But where does the energy go when people die? What if they don't go to heaven, or leave, or anywhere at all? What if they just… sit? I mean, if there was the existence of such energy, graveyards would be oil fields worth of power. Obviously, it isn't. So what if that energy in a body cannot leave and it lies in a coffin and rots for all of eternity? The central spirit is there, but since the body is frozen, it cannot move? That all these corpses have a stored conscious or something in them?

If that were true, then what happens to those poor, misguided souls who want themselves cremated? And what happens to those who ask for their ashes to be scattered into space?

Wait… I'm not making much sense. Never mind.

On a side note though: do I sound like I have an obsession with death?

- James [ March 4th ][ St. John's Library ]

James stared at his textbook with an unfocused gaze, listlessly fingering the metal brace on his arm out of nervous habit. The book was a distraction to clear his mind, but James was coming to the realization that he had no notion of what he had been reading for the past hour. Leading back against his pillow with the book propped on a knee, James loosened the straps on his arm brace and sighed.

It wasn't working. After ten hours, he still couldn't shake the image of the two strangers from his mind.

They claimed to know him, and oddly, apart of him accepted it without reason. He was an amnesiac who must have vanished a year ago from his previous life, and now, there were two men who recognized him. It made sense. Perhaps if he stayed to listen to them explain, he would have learned something. But James had fled like some sort of frightened animal and didn't even catch their names.

I should have listened, James told himself ruefully. But it was too late now…

"He called you Harry?"

It took James a moment to notice Will staring down at him, a towel still on his head and his hair dripping wet from the shower. Will looked oddly… dismayed. There was really no other way to describe the resigned expression on his friend's face.

"Yes," James admitted cautiously. "That's the fifth time you asked me that. Is something wrong?"

Will turned away from his question. Distractedly, he scrubbed at his hair and picked out his wrinkled clothes from the pile of laundry as if stubbornly blocking him out.

James frowned slightly. Will was usually involved in some sort of shouting match, and if he wasn't, he was complaining aloud. He wasn't the type of person to silently brood. Something was wrong and, on normal circumstances, James would have pursued it, but that day, he found that he didn't have the energy.

James gently closed his textbook and rested it on the table beside his bed. Unbidden, his mind returned to the events of early morning and to the two strangers: one with light brown hair intertwined with grey, the other with strange pale eyes like hollow pits. Squinting, James tried to grope blindly in his mind, struggling to find some sort of distant image that he could tie with those two men. But it was like grasping at water. He just couldn't remember.

After reading his share of books, glorifying some fallen hero with lost memory, James always expected meeting someone he once knew would be something similar. A flash of blinding light, a collapse; and then miraculously, he would awake in a neat little bed remembering everything. But that was just too idealized to be true.

James sighed dejectedly, and flinched when he felt the familiar tingle of the migraine setting in. Inwardly groaning, closed his eyes and rested his face on his knees.

"Where did you get that?" Will suddenly asked, warily examining at the neatly folded, but rather shabby coat at the foot of James' bed.

"One of them lent it to me. I forgot to give it back."

James picked up the neatly folded coat, and spread it on his knees. It was still damp from the morning rain; he had been paranoid about it shrinking in the wash and hung it above the heater to dry instead. It wasn't his, and James wasn't comfortable with the idea of ruining it.

Will abruptly snatched the coat from his hands. He pulled at the collar and pried at the sleeves, frantically searching for something. James scrambled off the bed, intent on retrieving it, but his friend jerked it away angrily.

"Will, what are you doing?" James said with some frustration. "It isn't mine. Don't damage it!"

"Get rid of this," Will suddenly said. "Throw this in the dump, burn it, it doesn't matter. Just get rid of it."

James frowned. "It's not mine to throw away. I still need to return it…"

"Stay away from them. They're nothing but trouble!" Will hissed vehemently.

With an angry scowl, he shoved the coat back into James' hands. James hesitated uncomprehendingly, loss at words for a second at Will's heated response. His friend was compulsive and hot tempered, but James wasn't sure what had provoked him.

"They said they knew me," James hesitantly began.

Will grunted, his blank eyes darkening with resentment. "Probably two drunkards or nutcases reminiscing."

James sighed. "They were in a coffee shop. They couldn't possibly be drunk."

Will stared at him; there was a hard line in his brow. "James, avoid them," he said tersely. "You're too naïve to understand. You can't just trust two random strangers you ran into on the street claiming to know you."

James bit his lip, frowning with a hint of exasperation. There was a difference between being naïve and being understanding. Will blurred the two too often. James understood Will's habitual stubbornness, but when his friend extended that philosophy to include James as well, it became, quite frankly, irritating. James wasn't sure whether to be flattered of annoyed at Will for fighting all his battles.

"But it could be possible, couldn't it?" James quietly asked. "What if they…?"

"No," Will hissed through clenched teeth. "They'll bring so much trouble you'll wish you'd never met them. Don't get involved with them. They'll completely ruin your life, James. Trust me on this one."

Will's stubbornness was beginning to arouse a slight suspicion. James listened to the curt footsteps as Will paced the room and thoughtfully refolded the coat again.

"Do you know something?" James began casually.

Will slammed his fist against the wall with a crash; James flinched.

"No! They're… James, just avoid those kinds of people!"

Will glared at James' as if obstinately willing him to obey, but before James would even open his mouth to respond, Will turned and fled the room. With a sigh, James sank on his bed.

Will didn't understand his uncertainty. He didn't understand how apart of James desperately wished that those two men knew him. Only someone with a blank slate as a mind could understand that sort of lingering, almost overwhelming hope.

He had no memories, no past, nothing to actually call his own. The orphanage was filled of children with stories to share; around them, James felt out of place, stripped and humiliated even. It was memories that shaped a person; how many times have he heard that? James lived in a place where everyone was a walking proof of that statement. Everyone had their own past and their own experience weighing on them. Even the youngest child in the children's home had something to share, and James was so envious sometimes. Even if it was pain they knew, at least they remembered. He had nothing but a collection of odd scars and a name he wasn't even sure was his.

Perhaps my family abandoned me, James would muse. Perhaps his parents discarded him just like over half the children in the orphanage. Perhaps that was why no records of him appeared in the hospital's database and no missing record with his profile was filed. Sometimes, James wished that he knew the answer, just to rid himself of that persistent bitter sting.

A very small part of James declared that he was happy the way he was. No memories meant no regrets; the very thought of regaining them stirred a fluttering feeling of unease. A small voice shouted in the depths his mind he didn't want to remember.

Spreading the coat on the foot of the bed, James carefully smoothed it out, distractedly tracing the gold letters that weaved out the words Madam Malkin's Robes on the collar.

The door to the dorms glided open, and sounds of loud, ragged breathing filled the room. It slammed shut, and that finally jolted James' from his light slumber.

After living in the small dorm for a year, he was well acquainted with everyone's odd quirks and habits. These disturbances occurred often enough, and he normally would have slept straight through. Blearily blinking at clock that hummed 1:47 am, James shifted under thick blankets, intent on scrapping the few hours of sleep he had left before the sun rise.

A thick voice slurred out something unintelligible, sounding oddly like mix of muffled giggles and mumbling words.

James cracked open an eye at the sounds. It was Eric; he was the only one who wandered around in the middle of the night. The other boy's muddled words were barely understandable, and though the light that filtered through the half open door, James could see that his sprawled limbs dangling the sides of the bed. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, followed the shadows from the streetlights over the walls.

James knew that look. He turned away again, closing his eyes tightly. There were some things James wished he didn't know about his roommates, and some things he wished he didn't know about life in general. It was good to be oblivious sometimes, and James tried hard to pretend to be.

"Eric, would you shut it?" Will's voice tore the layer of sleep completely away.

Through the groggy, half awake daze, James noted that Will sounded far more aggravated than usual.

More whispers. With an angry curse, Will groped blindly for something on his desk and flung it in the direction of Eric's bed.

James sat up with a jerk, instantly awake. Will flinging things in the middle of the night at Eric was never a good sign; if he wasn't quieted, Will would be raving in a few minutes. Eric had wandered into the dorms disjointed many times before, and each time concluded with Will shoving him into the hall or knocking him down with a fist. They were stubborn enemies with equally volatile dispositions; disputes between the two had never settled peacefully.

"Will, stop it. Just let him be," James said wearily.

"Well, he should just let us be," Will snapped. Kicking the covers back, he stood up and stomped loudly across the room.

James was immediately awake. Will's out of bed was not a good sign. James knew him and Eric both well enough to understand what was going to happen (this occurrence wasn't unusual, though the outcome usually depended on Will's prior mood). By then, it looked as if they woke up half the dorm. Sleepy faces were peeking at them already over the rims of their blankets, and James waved at them to go back to sleep.

"Will, just go back to sleep," James protested. "You've already gotten into a fight this morning."

"Stop defending him, James." Will wasn't relenting.

"Someone get the lights," James said as he shuffled around for his glasses. He'd better stop him before something got out of hand.

As quietly as he could off the creaking bed, James slipped out from under the covers and fought to muffle a groan. He ached. He hadn't noticed it hours before, but the entire skin of his side and back was bruised and sore. It felt even worse than that afternoon, but bruises had a terribly way of making themselves known rather belatedly. Biting his lip in pain, James slowly eased himself to his feet and limped across the room.

"Would you shut up, Eric?" Will snapped.

"Oh for Chrissake, he's only breathing!" James said, and grimaced when even speaking made his ribs ache.

"He's breathing awfully loud."

The lights finally swamped the room, and James finally had a full view of the muffled activities. Will had Eric by the front of his shirt and seemed intent on hauling him to the bathrooms. But with Eric's knees dragging the floor and his head thrown back, he was a dead weight that was impossible to drag. James hurried to pry his friend back.

"It doesn't matter," James insisted. "He's falling asleep. He'll be softer then"

"He'd snore."

"You snore," James mumbled with a sigh.

"He'd snore; then halfway through the middle of the night, he'd vomit and make us breathe the fumes."

Grimacing, Will shoved the boy back, but James was numbly relieved that the action was only half hearted. Eric fell back against the wooden floors with a limp thud.

Eric groaned. Squinting, he looked blearily up at James. "Help me up… my head hurts…"

James caught Will by the back of his nightshirt firmly when it looked that his friend was ready to do something drastic.

"That's terrible, Eric. Do you remember what you last ate?"

"Something sweet… 's good…"

"I'm glad you liked it," James mumbled distractedly. Bending down, James hauled Eric up by an arm in an attempt to help him to his feet.

"Come on," James insisted. "Get up before Elaine notices the light's on."

"…'s nice. You should try some…"

With an annoyed glare, Will brushed James aside and roughly yanked Eric to his feet. James inwardly cringed for the dormmate. Eric gave a startled gargle, and his hand shot to his mouth. That action triggered the alarm bells in his head instantly. James had sat with ill, young children enough to know all the warning signs.

"Will, take him to the toilet, quick!"

James tilted Eric's head up with a hand under his jaw, but by the griming expression on the boy's face, James could tell it was only making things worse. Eric lurched forward.

"Shit!"

It took over ten minutes to drag a dead weight down the hall, but Will managed to haul Eric to a toilet before he spewed in the dorms. James held his shoulders, cringing in sympathy as the boy arched his back and vomited.

Will took a disgusted step back and pinched his nose. "Trust him to get whacked the first weekend of summer."

"It's just alcohol," James patted Eric's back when the boy gargled and spluttered.

"He's had more than alcohol, don't pretend you don't know it," Will snapped. He scowled at Eric's back, as if plotting to aim a kick there, but settled on glaring instead.

"It's just alcohol," James repeated groggily. "He's just had too much. Give him a few minutes, and he'll be alright." Giving the boy another sympathetic pat on the back, James slouched towards the hall with dragging feet. "Hold him up for a bit. I'm going to get him some water."

"What the hell for?"

"Alcohol makes you thirsty, and plus, drinking some water would dampen the hangover…"

Will rolled his eyes skyward. "Just give him water from the tap."

"Will, it's reclaimed," James tiredly sighed.

"Alright!"

Will looked decidedly wary, but nevertheless, begrudgingly took a step forward. None too gently, he plucked at the back of Eric's shirt and held him up like a rag doll.

"Make sure Eric's head isn't in the toilet when I return," James tried to make his tone teasing, but Will only responded with an irritated pout.

With dragging feet, James made his way down the hall. After the initial surge of energy had worn off at the sudden awakening, he felt sluggish again. Muffling a yawn, he followed the texture of the wall to the kitchen. James could trace the familiar path in darkness, after his numerous midnight excursions for midnight snacks.

Flicking on the light switch, he paused for a moment to readjust his eyes at the brightness before groggily moving towards the cupboards. He had another paper delivery in the morning, followed by six hours at the donut shop. James groaned aloud at just the thought.

As he stretched an arm for a mug, a faint tinkering of porcelain echoed through small kitchen. James stilled, his hand freezing halfway to the shelves. He couldn't have made that sound; he was still inches away from the cupboard.

He strained his ears. A quiet, very quiet, rustle of cloth vibrated through the small kitchen.

James' gut gave a nauseating wrench as the sharp pangs of fear began to eat away at his stomach.

There was a man in the room with him, and that man wasn't anyone who belonged in St. MaryAnn's. James wasn't sure how he knew, but he did and he was frightened. A voice deep in the back of his mind was crying out and suddenly, he knew that there was a stranger standing right behind him, just an arm's length from James' back and the stranger was watching him, just waiting for him to move…

Slowly, feeling as if every joint of his spine had stiffened in their pockets, James turned his head. A smear of black cut into the corner of his vision, but before James could fully turn and compensate for his damaged eye, he found himself backed into the cupboard with a warm hand clamped over his mouth.

A stranger stared down at him with startlingly familiar steel blue eyes, his hair a damp, tangled curtain over his face and his skin a corpse-like white.

"Harry," he croaked out with a ragged voice. "Why did you run?"

James tried to scream.

*