Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.
a/n this proof is solely based on biology. Unlike chemistry or physics, which is just common sense the majority of the time, biology is based mostly on facts directly from a text book. It probably will make absolutely no sense if you've never taken a life science course. A lot of these things James mentions are complex, like the controls regulating a cell's mitosis sequence and the reproduction of viruses, and he skims over it without really addressing what they are. Umm… It's not that important, just skip over them. I'm really sorry about an confusion!
The Persistence of Memory
By neutral
Chapter seven - persistence of denial
Werewolves: by definition they are humans who transform into wolves at the light of the full moon and suddenly become ferocious, blood thirsty creatures who rip other humans apart. In myths, they are portrayed as strong, but lonesome creatures who wander by either two or four feet (those books were never clear), with killer raptor claws.
Suppose the strain of the werewolf cruse is a virus like HIV: it incorporates itself into the infected person's DNA and manifests itself when the time is right. Viruses have capsules that are protein specific, in other words, they only affect a certain type of cells.
If there is a virus that causes a person to change completely into a wolf during a certain time of month, then every single cell of his body must be inflected. For a virus to possess such versatility, it must 1) spend hours working overtime in protein identification, 2) grow extremely fat in order to carry all of those identification proteins 3) be so fat that it can no longer function as a working virus and 4) die. In which case, it'll croak before it went anywhere past the carrier's bloodstream.
But assuming it did. If a virus went to the extend of infecting every single cell in a person's body, that person would have entities in his body mechanically chopping up his DNA and inserting new sequences. (viruses are the third largest cancer inducing agent. If a person is at risk from getting cancer just having the flu, then what would happen to someone who had every single cell in his body altered? *Jaws music plays in background*).
DNA controls growth and death of cells. The little virus goes in and pulls the birth control pill part. The cell insanely divides. The majority of the werewolf population would be developing massive tumors and cancerous bodies. They'd spend fortunes on chemotherapy. They'd all be dirt poor. They'd all be bald. They'd all die within five years. If werewolves existed once, they're dead now.
But assuming the werewolf virus is kind and doesn't destroy the go / no-go genes, thus sparing the victim from cancer. How do full moons in particular trigger a transformation? Moonlight is a reflection of sunlight. Sunlight is composed of waves, namely ultraviolet, infrared, and waves of the visible spectrum. Since we cannot get a tan from moonlight, ultraviolet is not reflected by the moon. And since moonlight doesn't heat up patches on the earth, we can eliminate infrared from the category as well.
Moonlight is composed mostly of waves from the visible spectrum, which is composed of photons. If photons can trigger the virus to react, then you can make a werewolf transform by just shining a flashlight on him. And since I haven't seen anyone spontaneously change into a wolf of the late while waving that flashlight around, I am safely assuming that the majority of people in the area are not werewolves.
Or maybe it only works with reflected sunlight in particular, because the moon has a unique touch which is oh so special and no one knows about it, like some top notch chef in those dressy restaurants. If moonlight specifically were to trigger a transformation, then any phase of the moon remotely close to full would force him out of whack. In which case, we'd be hearing a lot of howling at night and the price of silver would shoot up to the skies (why the hell are werewolves weak against silver? Is it some sort of massive allergic reaction?).
This is still neglecting the fact that they're suppose to lose about four ribs, a couple thousand brain cells, and grow massive amounts of hair and nails every day of the month. I'd say they must all eat like sumo wrestlers. And weren't they suppose to be dirt poor?
In which case, if werewolves did exist, they must have cells like bacteria with little ringlets of DNA separate from its genome (that's the only way to keep them from spontaneously transforming from street lamps, flashlights, and car headlights) which happen to have the perfect biological clock to insert themselves into the rest of the chromosomes in thirty day cycles. They must be either disgustingly rich or dirt poor to afford all those chemotherapy sessions, either that or be single-celled thus sparing him from cancer. They must all look anorexic. They must all be bald. They must all be in jail for noise pollution.
Just out of curiosity though. If there is such a thing as werewolves, do they ever PMS?
- James [May 21st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]
And then he was leaking like a cracked dam; James found himself spluttering words he would have never admitted to two nameless strangers.
"I… I can't remember. My name is James. Well, I think I'm James… but I'm not sure…"
He cringed; even to his own ears, his words sounded ridiculous. Just minutes ago, he was practically shrieking at them that his name was James.
The fugitive was still and James tried to avoid looking at him. The professor was perplexed, but the expression on his face cut James to the core with its intensity.
"Who are you?" James suddenly blurted out.
The fugitive flinched.
"You're not Harry?" the professor asked a low whisper, frowning in consideration.
"No, I'm not! I mean…" James drew an unsteady breath when his voice wavered. The headache was beginning to set in; he could feel it gnawing behind his eyes. James drew a trembling hand over his forehead agitatedly and his fingers came away moist with sweat. "I can't remember anything. I… did Harry disappear?"
The professor stared at him hard. When he finally spoke, he sounded remarkably restrained. "Yes. He disappeared last year. It was on June 24th that he…"
The rest of the professor's faded into silence, a phrase echoing repeatedly in his head. Disappeared… June 24th… That was exactly one week before he was found, sixteen days before he regained consciousness. All the arrows were pointing to him: his face, his eyes, his disappearance were undeniable evidence. I'm not James, I could be Harry…
He could almost see the life that he had known and accepted for the past year crumbling into pieces. Trembling, James buried his face in his hands, hoping that with some twisted miracle, he'd be back at St. MaryAnn's when he opened his eyes. The urge to run returned twice as strong.
"… it could be a coincidence," James whispered firmly to himself.
The fugitive's breathing seemed to grow heavier. He had the appearance of someone struck and stabbed too many times. "Harry, is this… what is this that you're trying to…?"
"I don't remember! I don't remember anything!" Those words came out in a shout maddened with frustration. James clenched his hands into fists. "I… I lost my memory a year ago. I don't know who I am."
He felt weighted down. James could hear the blood pounding in his head as he stared at the carpet under his feet.
"But I… I think I'm James," James muttered agitatedly. He sounded more fearful and defensive than anything else. "That's what I told the nurse."
The professor was painfully still. "How did this happen?"
James shrugged helplessly. He was breathless, James noted dimly, but the room felt so hot…
"I don't know. They found me close to the road, so they sort of assumed I was hit by a car, but after a while, they gave that up…" James looked at his hands, then at the floor. Anywhere but the two strangers. "They couldn't diagnose me with anything concrete, and I didn't have any brain damage or anything. They figured it was some really off form of Post Traumatic Stress."
"You remember nothing?" the professor whispered.
"Nothing. When I woke up a year ago, I… I didn't even know what the color of my eyes was…" James chewed his lip, feeling oddly embarrassed for admitting that. "There was no file for a missing child that matched mine, and they sent me to the orphanage. It was a more permanent thing… They all figured, well… yeah…"
James fell silent, confused even by his own his incoherent phrases. He was beginning to feel unnaturally warm, and the fabric of his coarse shirt was itchy against his skin. Nervously, he scrubbed at his neck. The headache, previously ignored, was returning full force and the bright lights scattered throughout the chamber felt like little knives.
Squinting, he ran a hand over his clammy forehead. His hands were beginning to shake with feverish tremors. Why was the air so thick…?
The room gave an odd tilt to the right.
"He's ill," came a distant murmur.
Somewhere through the feverish haze, James felt an icy hand on his brow, brushing strands of hair back from his face. Instinctively, James turned away from the foreign gesture, but at the slight movement, the pounding in his head intensified. James groaned.
"He was in the rain too long… feverish…"
James tried to shake his head. It wasn't the rain, James tried to explain, but throat felt scrapped with sandpaper, it could be something else. There was a cold going through the children's home, and he probably caught a bad strain of it. It always happened. His immune system seemed to have dissolved since his hospitalization; he never got through a month without getting bedridden for at least a weekend. He had missed so many days of school being sick the first quarter, he was nearly expelled. He should never have studied that late into the night, but he didn't want to forced into primary school classes… it would have been so embarrassing…
"Harry? Can you hear me?" the hand was back, lightly cupping his cheek.
James shifted wearily, feeling as if a heavy weight was pushing him down. Slitting his eyes open, James watched the shadows move above him through a fever induced daze. The face that hovered beside him was blurred, filtered through a film of water and fog. Why was he staring down at him? Was he lying down? James squinted, trying to recall when he was placed under the covers, but his mind came away blank.
"… very high fever. He needs medical potions…"
A splash of water sluggishly drifted to his ears; the icy sensation on his forehead came as a shock. Stifling a gasp, he stiffened when he felt the moist water soaking his hair. It was cold… James blindly tugged at it, trying to peel it from his forehead, but a hand gently caught his wrist and held it.
"It's okay. Stay still…"
James tried to protest. The cloth was too reminiscent of the acidic medical gauze: sticky and coarse. They stunk like something rotten, and no matter how longer he bore them, he could never get used to them. Weakly, he tried to push cloth away… push it away and tell the stranger that it didn't matter… but the pounding in his head slowly became deafening and he had to draw back into darkness to escape.
The first layer of bandages peeled away like caked blood, crumbling at his finger tips. It was crisp and stiff, the smell of disinfectant fading from the yellowing cloth. The cuts had sealed and settled on his flesh, but now, clear white pus was seeping through the lacerations.
James gritted his teeth, straining his left arm to give the fabric another tug.
It fell lose from his ribs, pooling on the floor in front of his bare feet.
Drawing a ragged breath, he bit his lip to muffle a gasp of shocked pain. He
sank against the sink heavily, drawing deep, steadying breaths as the gashes in
his sides pulsed and flamed. He could feel a sticky fluid oozing from the tender
cuts, violently jarred as he ripped the bandage away.
// 'Did you see those cuts? That poor kid was tortured…' \\
God, his ribs hurt. If it wasn't for the novocain, he'd be kneeling on the
floor. James held his breath in an attempt to move his sides as little as
possible, but that only made his lungs itch. Blinking away tears, James leaned
his weight against the sink and straightened.
// '… parents abandoned him, that's what I think. Why else would there be not
one file even remotely related to his? Just think…' \\
A pale and gaunt face of a boy stared back at him, with hair so deep brown, it
was almost black. The unruly mop on his head was a sharp contrast to the rest of
his face, looking as if someone had drowned him in bleach but neglected to treat
his hair as well. His eyes were an odd shade of green. James touched the corner
of his blind eye cautiously, and the mirror imitated his action.
// '… no one wanted him. I wonder why? He's a good kid, very quiet…' \\
It was the first time he saw his reflection; James had only managed to catch
glimpses of himself on polished metal or plastic. But the unfamiliar image that
stared back at him only made him more unsettled. Was this what I'm supposed
to look like? He didn't remember. James' gaze slowly lowered. He had to grip
the sink to keep from staggering.
It was disgusting.
There was no other word to describe the scarred flesh on the completely wasted
frame. Is this my body? It should belong to a monster, or maybe a half
rotten corpse buried under the ground, but not to him. James felt his stomach
churning nauseatingly as he stared into the mirror, but couldn't bring himself
to turn away.
Mats of brownish red and clear yellow caked his skin in handfuls, tracing the
long gashes that crisscrossed his sides. It looked as if someone had attempted
to play tic tac toe on him with an ice pick, and with more than one game. Right
above his heart was a mass of cuts so numerous, the area seemed skinned.
Seventeen parallel lines were carved across his abdomen, reminding him oddly of
the light that streamed through the window binds. Lines crisscrossed his arms,
raw and deep, and James felt sick just trying to count. Angrily, he gripped the
edge of the sink and wondered why his eyes stung.
// '… most ridiculous tattoo on his back… don't think the laser can completely get rid of it. It'd leave a rather large mark, and I don't think his body could take more damage for some time…' \\
There was a curved cut that seemed especially deep, stretching from his collar
bone to his chest, and then weaving up to his shoulder, onto his arm, looping
around in the mockery of some sort of jewelry or decoration. It curled around
his right arm, melting into a thick gash that stood, livid above his elbow.
James rotated his arm as much as he dared. The cut was reflected on the other
side. Whoever cut him had a blade long enough to travel through his arm.
Although, James mused with some sadistic amusement, it only needed to be three
inches right then. His limb was a drained protrusion of bone and skin; James
could wrap his left hand around his entire upper arm with ease.
// '… it's amazing he's alive. Did you hear the doctors talking? He had so many close calls the first few weeks… ' \\
James didn't need to be told that his right arm was going to be useless. His
bones had been shattered beyond repair. The nerves had been sheared into pieces.
He couldn't even move his right thumb.
As if in a daze, James let his gaze linger on it, traveling down the pale and
misshapen limb in some sort of morbid fascination. There were teeth marks on his
wrist, imprints of fingernails on his forearm. It looked as if someone had
clawed at it, as if digging for a vessel or a vein and ruthlessly tearing out
sinews. James lifted his wrist to his face and placed the joint in his mouth.
The groves of his teeth matched perfectly.
// '… poor thing. His family just left him alone…' \\
Gingerly, James sank to the floor and just focused on breathing.
"… be better soon. Drink this, Harry…" that voice molded with his memory, and for a moment, James couldn't tell it apart from his past. There was a cup held to his lips and an arm around his shoulders gently lifting him up, but he was too dazed to notice.
Something was pressed to his mouth. James spluttered, fighting the urge to retch at the nauseating sweet fluid washing down his throat. What was this? James tried to splat it out but someone seemed to be holding his head, and… and…
James felt himself relaxing. It was becoming hard to be aware of anything else.
Sirius whispered soothing, incoherent phrases as he steadied the boy against his shoulder. Sirius refilled the cut with faintly glowing potion and held it to Harry's lips again, but even feverish, the boy tried to struggle.
"No…" Harry's young features were knitted in a deep frown. He seemed barely conscious as he shifted away.
"Try to drink this; it'll help with your fever," Sirius insisted, shifting to sit on the four poster beside the boy.
Carefully, Remus pressed his hand against Harry's forehead and wearily shook his head. "His temperature's still rising."
He wished he felt half as calm as he sounded.
It was too much of a shock… everything that happened within the last six hours had been a shock. What he had spent a year trying to overcome was flipped in a matter of minutes, and Remus found himself floundering in still water. It was better than what had happened in the Shrieking Shack three years ago, but only barely… he could never get used to this.
He tried to ignore the boy's painfully slender arms as he disentangled the blankets from his shoulders. This shouldn't have happened. Harry should never have lost his memories and he should never have stayed in an orphanage…
Remus felt hollow as he brushed tendrils of hair from the boy's feverish face. Was it right to feel so empty? Remus could barely absorb what had happened, much less digest the news. He still had trouble imagining that Harry was alive. If it had been Harry's body they found, it would have been easier. They had been bracing themselves for it for a year, but to know that Harry was alive a well, albeit memory-less, Remus wasn't sure how he should react. Relieved, happy… but torn all the same. Why hadn't they discovered him sooner?
"He won't drink." Sirius whispered, hand hovering indecisively on Harry's shoulder.
"He'll be fine. It's only a fever… Could you fill an ice bath, Sirius?" Remus softly asked.
Remus' expression darkened as he examined the oversized, over washed pajamas hanging like a sack on him. With a heavy sigh, Remus began to gently unbutton the boy's shirt; Harry had the graying rag buttoned to the collar, stiff and uncomfortable to sleep in, and nearly every single button was mismatched. When Remus' fingers brushed Harry's neck, he gave a startled cry of protest.
Frowning weakly, he batted at Remus' hands. He seemed too far gone to even understand his own actions.
Sirius was instantly on his feet, brushing Remus aside and pulling the blankets back up to Harry's chin.
"It's okay," Sirius said agitatedly. "Just let him be."
Remus held his breath. Sirius' tone was pure concern, and for a moment, Remus wondered if Sirius had accepted the Harry's previous words, or rather it had not completely sunk in.
"The fever should pass by itself," Remus noted, pressing his hand to the boy's forehead again. "But I don't think we should risk it. Harry doesn't look…" … like he'd take the strain. He'd be bedridden for at least half the week.
Remus grimaced. Harry was pale and thin enough to rival him on the days after the full moon; the feverish flush to his cheeks was actually making him look healthier. It had to be wrong.
"Do you have any potions?"
"The stock you brought last time is downstairs," Sirius murmured distractedly. "I'll get them for Harry."
"No," the boy slurred out weakly in protest. "'m not… I'm James…"
They probably all flinched at that simple statement. Sirius sank heavily onto the edge of the bed and his shoulders sagged in defeat.
Half wary and half frightened of what he would see in Sirius' face, Remus kept his gaze on Sirius' scarred hand resting beside Harry's shoulder and then to the silvers of gray tipping the roots of his black hair. He should tell Sirius that it would be alright; he must be feeling so defeated… but the shock was so recent, Remus couldn't even deal with his own shock, much less Sirius'.
He needed to get away and think… go to someplace quiet…
"Sirius, I'm going to Hogwarts. Dumbledore needs to know of this," Remus whispered to his friend's back. He didn't even twitch. Something about Sirius' posture made it painfully obvious how close he was to snapping; Remus tentatively touched his shoulder. "This is hard for all of us, Sirius, especially Harry. Please, stay calm."
"Stay calm?" Sirius echoed with bitter disbelief. He sharply turned, and Remus flinched at the haggardness in his face. "Harry lost his memory. He spent a year in an orphanage, and you tell me to stay calm? You…" his words trailed off into a frustrated sigh. Sirius' gaze traveled the sleeping boy, huddled under the covers. "How do you do it?" he asked after a heavy silence.
Remus swallowed, his throat very dry. "What?"
Sirius gritted his teeth. "Act like that. After Harry said all of those things, you still act like that. After he disappeared last year, you still acted like that. Like it doesn't hurt you…" he fell silent.
Remus had to struggle to keep himself silent.
How could Sirius think that he didn't care? Did he have any idea how much it pained him, and how hard he tried to hide it to reassure others?
Remus looked away, trying to compose himself. It wouldn't do to lose control now. Sirius had a bout of anger locked in him, struggling to burst free. And Remus didn't want to face him when it did.
"I'm not going to argue with you, Sirius," Remus said quietly. "This isn't the time."
"No." Sirius sounded very tired.
"Harry's ill. We still need to know what's wrong. There are still so many things unexplained. Harry's lost his memory. It can't be normal…" Remus trailed off into silence, carefully avoiding Sirius' gaze. He understood and sympathized with Sirius' misplaced frustration but felt pained all the same.
Sirius ran his fingers through his tangled hair in a gesture of frustration. "Just go," he ground out.
*