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

a/n: I am so sorry this took so long!! In the end, I was close to chewing my own nails off in impatience. My muse just refused to cooperate. I think those weeks of vacationing overseas killed my muse even more than before, but now I'm back and ready to go again, after almost a 6 months break. Ack. I'm so sorry everyone!

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter nine - persistence of lies

...brings to question the process in which they charged him. His alleged crimes were not publicized until he escaped from prison twelve years later, and even then, it was only a minor article nine pages into the newspaper. 'Sirius Black is a mass murderer, armed and dangerous' [Weasley, 233], but the article offers no further explanation. Four days later, a second article finally provided more detailed information, remarking that '[Black] brutally murdered fourteen unsuspecting civilians on Misgrave Avenue twelve years ago, the morning after Halloween' [Weasley, 192].

On November first, twelve years ago, no murders were reported. Certainly with deaths of that magnitude, a report would have been filed, but the only accident which occurred matching the description was a gas explosion on Misgrave Avenue. Fourteen civilians were killed on the scene. No further mentioning of the said explosion was addressed in the later days, not even an investigation on the city pipe system was initiated by the government. Why the politicians covered up the accident and incriminated Sirius Black is a mystery.

The final close to the case is a mystery as well. Sirius Black was freed crimes in late June of last year, with an article stating in a few short lines '[Black] was framed and thus cleared of all crimes' [Weasley, 98]. For a murderer who allegedly slaughtered fourteen, he had alarmingly little media coverage. And for a government mishap of that magnitude, things were remarkably hushed up. What was even more alarming was that Sirius Black was cleared the day after one hundred and ninety eight people burned to death in a small town in northeast England (whose name was not even mentioned in the paper, beyond the fact that it was near an old mansion called the Riddle House). Both cases were reported to the public in a small article written by the same reporter, on the ninth page of the same newspaper.

Several times, I had tried to contact Mr. Reporter through mail. Twice this month and fourteen times the last month, I had sent a letter requesting further information on Sirius Black to Mr. Arthur Weasley through the contact address the newspaper provided, but at each incident, my letter was returned unopened exactly two days after it was sent. This alone is not unusual; however, I have begun to notice that my letters were always returned about four hours before the mail arrived. The returned envelope was always set above the mailbox, with strange beak marks along the edges. Either Mr. Arthur Weasley owns hordes of birds and uses them to deliver letters, or all fourteen of my letters have had the unfortunate luck of being dinner plates for pigeons, or…

- James [On Conspiracies , a report for Political Science ]

'Concentrating hard on your happy memory?' a man said from far away, sounding forcibly cheerful but unmistakably worried at once. His voice was that of a stranger, but there was something familiar about it; he had heard it before. .

'Oh -- yeah --,' came his own voice; he sounded tense and uncertain, and James could almost feel his trembling. 'expecto patrono -- no, partronum -- sorry -- expecto partronum, expecto partronum…'

'We shouldn't have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip… but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?'

He was dreaming. Or was he remembering? He could never tell the difference. Sometimes, when James fell asleep and dreamt of things too fantastic to be true but too detailed to be false, he could never tell whether it was a memory or his imagination. To him, they blended; his past, his dreams… they twisted together into a warped form of surreality and leaving James constantly wondering…

But were his memories really his memories? Or were they only vague images he'd seen, and somehow twisted into his own recollections? Were they the things that really happened, or were they merely shadows of his lost dreams? What was a truth? What was a lie? What was he?

He was Harry… they said he was Harry…

'Once upon a time, there was a boy named Harry Potter.'

His attention snagged, James extracted his nose from the battered biology textbook and glanced at Will curiously. He was fairly certain the story Will was about to tell the circle of wide-eyed children was not the same one he was reading out of the book -- the title, James could distinctly see was Politically Correct Bedtime Stories.

'Harry Potter was… err… a wizard…' Will hesitated before continuing on, his face curiously nervous. 'He was also an orphan and he… umm… had no parents'

Several of the younger children rolled their eyes. A few others groaned, and James couldn't resist his own inward sigh. Will was not good at this at all.

'He was forced to live in an orphanage just like you and me,' James interrupted, before he noticed Will's sudden desperate look. He set his homework down and folded his hands in the usual manner he took during storytelling. Lowering his voice rather surreptitiously, he added 'He hid his abilities from the rest of his friends, because Harry Potter had certain problems. You see, he was a rather bad wizard. Because his parents were dead, there was no one to teach him magic, and…'

'No! No, you're getting it all wrong!' Will shot James a heated glare, and James was a bit surprised to see Will so annoyed over something so trivial. 'He was a good wizard! In fact, when he was only one year old, he defeated the most powerful dark lord in history! He became a legend! Because he was so famous, some people thought he was only a myth. When his parents died, they sent him to live with his aunt and uncle.'

James blinked, impressed. Usually, it was he, and not Will who had the runaway imagination…

'Then when he turned eleven, he was invited to go to a school for wizards and witches, called… umm…' Suddenly, Will fell silent, and James grew slightly bewildered when Will looked at him, expectantly.

' Merlinville?' James offered

Will's face fell. 'No! It was… Ho… Pigwarts!'

James winced. What a terrible name.

'And then…' Will continued uneasily, 'something happened to Harry Potter when he was fourteen… something terrible.' Will paused dramatically. 'He died…' Pause. 'I think…'

Ouch. How anticlimactic. James fought the urge to groan aloud with the other children. But even as he shook his head in disapproval, he couldn't help but notice Will watching him intently.

Then Will's face melted into the room, and the room melted into darkness, and the dream fractured into hundreds of unidentifiable pieces before scattering away.

Awareness had a sneaky way of trickling in when James woke up without the use of shouting or an alarm clock. Slowly, he began to feel the soft sheets that were tangled around his arm, the stiff texture of his threadbare pajamas, and the faint warmth of sunlight that touched the sides of his face. James found himself lying in bed for a long time before he realized that his eyes were open and he was fully awake.

He squinted up at the red mass above him -- James couldn't decide what had happened to the ceiling to make it look that way; he must have missed something serious last night -- and tried to figure out why he felt as though there were butterflies in his stomach. His entire body, James sluggishly began to realize, felt submerged, and there was a strange aftertaste in the back of his tongue that reminded him oddly of sour wine.

James couldn't decide on whether he felt frightened or suspicious.

Something wasn't right. The room was too quiet, for one; and second, he was too comfortable. The crooked mattress spring wasn't poking at him from its usual place; rather, the bed was so soft that he felt swallowed in its soothing folds. Blindly, James fumbled for his glasses and wondered distractedly when his pillow had grown.

There they were, on that nightstand. But since when did his bedside gain a nightstand? James froze midway, his hand just brushing the lens of his glasses, as a sickening realization came over him.

This wasn't his bed. This wasn't even his home. There was a man who came to the orphanage last night… a questionably sane man that had chased him down a hallway and… oh… no… no!

Suddenly, he felt incurably ill.

Shakily, he grabbed his glasses and crammed them over his face. The room jumped into focus, and James barely muffled a startled yelp at what sharpened into focus before his eyes.

There was a man slumped in the chair right beside the nightstand -- so close that James had barely missed knocking into him when he had groped blindly for his glasses -- with his head resting awkwardly against his propped hand, and his shoulder leaning against the four poster. It was the man who dragged him out of the orphanage that night, though James would never have thought that of the stranger, looking at him then. The man seemed thinner, smaller, as if he had deflated somehow.

James held his breath for a long moment, watching the stranger uneasily

He's asleep…

Seized with an unusual bout of curiosity, James inched forward toward the man. Tilting his head to one side, James peered into the man's face.

The stranger's hair was tangled and unkempt, and he had a beard that looked several days old. His hair wasn't entirely black as he had first thought; there were distinct flecks of white along the man's temples that seemed out of place. He had the hard, chiseled features of someone difficult to cross, and there were wrinkles that lined the edges of his eyes and mouth that look unnaturally old. Even in sleep, he had a weather-beaten look that reminded James of the stray dog that used to live in the alleyway next to the orphanage, before animal control took care of it.

Mentally, James slapped himself for the rather uncomplimentary comparison.

He did look familiar though, but James wasn't sure if it was from the memory loss, or not. He had seen that face somewhere in the last year… was it in the newspaper? Or a magazine? James couldn't place it.

The stranger's breath suddenly hitched; he began to stir.

James nearly tumbled headfirst to the floor in his hurry to get off the bed.

It wasn't until he was already out the door did it occur to him how unreasonable his actions were. It wasn't like the stranger meant him any harm. He had good intentions in mind when he kidnapped him. A small part of James urged him to walk back in the room, confront the stranger and demand explanations. Wasn't it just last night that they claimed to know him, his family, and his name? He ought to trust them a little; it was only fair. But James felt himself panicking even as he tried to reassure himself with those thoughts.

He didn't want to be forced into the situation… he didn't want to be in their home, in their territory, under their control. No, he wanted to do things at his own pace, in a place he was familiar with, surrounded by people he trusted. Being here alone, trapped in a mansion located god knows where, caught among people he couldn't even remember made him feel as though he were trapped in an alley with two dead ends. The thought was unsettling for him more than he could even understand himself.

James spent a long time just leaning against the wall with his head buried in his hands, listening for the sound of the stranger's voice and his footsteps echoing through the wall. But there was none. James clutched at his pounding head and wondered if the man had fallen back to sleep.

Wait, wasn't there another man? James jerked up at the thought, and nearly groaned aloud when the spots in his eyes flared in response. The unnaturally pale and thin man who spoke like a teacher… was he here? He hadn't seen him in the room, and the entire place was quiet. Could it be that he had left?

James' stomach joined in protest along with his pounding head. The thought of being alone with the dark haired stranger was more than frightening…

Then, before he was even aware of what he was doing, he was running down the hallway towards the stairs in one last desperate attempt to flee.

It felt like hours just trying to get out of the corridor. The place that had become his prison the previous night was as gloomy as it was large, and James felt his nerves getting frayed by the simple creaking of the floorboards. When he finally reached the stairs, he was close to limping again, and it took clinging to the banister to finally get him to the ground floor (if it was the ground floor.) James had no idea how many stories the mansion contained.

The stairs ended at a large, lounge-like room and James felt his breath catch when he lifted his head. For several minutes, he could only stare at the rich Persian rugs that hung along the walls, the velvet and lace curtains that framed the towering, stain-glassed windows, and the wealth of china that gleamed in displays about the room.

Whoever owned this place was so rich, it was sickening.

The thick windows that lined every wall of the room overlooked a span of trees that James couldn't decide whether they were gardens or the forests. They looked too overgrown to be privately owned, but the spots of blooming red blossoms among the overgrown bushes made James wonder.

Am I even in London anymore? This doesn't look anywhere close to home…

This thought snapped James out of his daze. Squaring his shoulders in determination, James limped as fast as possible to the door.

"Harry?" a voice asked in a tense whisper.

Startled, James nearly tripped over his own feet. He jerked around, heart suddenly beating at a nauseating pace as he tried to figure out where the speaker was.

A sandy-haired man stood calmly in the center of the room, his light gray eyes fixed on James as if he were only waiting for James to notice him. James felt his face heat up in embarrassment and then pale just as quickly in renewed fear. The events last night felt so distant and blurred that James had no time to consider how to respond. He wasn't sure if he wanted to anymore. The past was a frightening, unfamiliar thing.

Slowly, James took a cautious step back.

The stranger continued to watch him in silence, but unlike the other, James didn't find his gaze unsettling. There was something about the way this man held himself that made James more at ease. Perhaps it was because of how frail he looked (did he have cancer? He certainly looked it). It was rather difficult to feel intimidated, when the man looked as though a light breeze could shatter him to pieces.

More silence. The stranger didn't seem inclined to break it, and James had no idea what to say.

"Hi," James mumbled, nearly cringing at the way his voice wavered in nervousness. "I was just… uhh… walking around." James winced; he couldn't have been any less convincing than that. "I mean, I wasn't trying to find my way out or anything, and umm…" Oh god. He had to be the world's worst liar. "No! I mean… Oh, I better shut up before I embarrass myself anymore."

The stranger blinked, looking rather bewildered by his rambling. He stared at James as if he wasn't entirely sure if he recognized him.

"You should probably sit down," he said after a long, tense pause. "You were ill last night and you might still be slightly feverish."

James nodded but he didn't move from his place close to the door.

He had been ill? James could barely remember, but that would explain why he woke up with the strange aftertaste in his mouth and his limbs feeling so heavy. The strangers had taken care of him. Suddenly, James felt immensely guilty for trying to run away.

The man was still watching him in silence. James was becoming rather twitchy

The professor abruptly dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Par… pardon?" James stuttered, rather startled.

"I must be making you nervous, staring at you like that. I apologize." The stranger suddenly smiled, but it looked rather pained.

Everything about the stranger was remarkably calm… almost to the point of being mechanical. For someone reuniting with an allegedly deceased person, the professor was acting frighteningly normal. James couldn't imagine anyone possessing that kind of self control; the professor's face was completely unreadable.

"You must be hungry. Would you like some tea?"

James had the strangest sense of déjà vu at those words.

"No, but thank you."

The professor offered him tea anyway, and despite himself, James found himself accepting it. He stared at the cup rather blankly for some moments, trying to figure out why the world around him seemed to have tilted, then righted itself into a whole new angle.

"Sugar? Milk?"

James sipped at the tea experimentally. "Five sugar cubes. No milk."

The professor smiled fondly. "Sweet tooth?"

James grinned rather sheepishly. "It's the donuts. I've had too many of them."

"I see." He patted the sofa close to him. "Please, sit down."

And James did.

Then, for the next few minutes, the professor went about busying himself with the tea, adding sugar and stirring with such casual grace that James could almost believe they drank tea together every morning for the past year. James felt himself calming; on an afterthought. the prospect of running away seemed ridiculous. Sipping tea beside the stranger felt oddly… natural… and yet…

James caught himself and frowned. How did the stranger reassure him so subtly? Somewhere along the lines of exchanging nervous glances and curt replies, the professor suddenly came out with the upper hand and James completely fell into the others routine.

Was I just manipulated? James nervously wondered. What a creepy professor…

He waited for the professor to speak again in the calm, amiable tone of his, but he did not. The professor merely drank his tea in silence and paused every once in a while to smile at James when their eyes met. He was apprehensive, James began to realize. The professor disguised it well, but there were subtle hints in his uneasiness, in the way he held himself and the way his eyes darted about the room. Sometimes, his expression would change, and he would draw in a breath as if preparing to speak but fall silent again.

James suddenly understood. The professor was very good at being calm, but terrible at just about everything else.

Nervously, James swirled the tea leaves in his cup. Should he break the silence and speak? Should he keep silent and wait? There were so many questions that needed to be answered, but James wasn't sure if he knew was to ask.

James cleared his throat uneasily. "Umm…"

"Yes?" the professor asked, rather quickly.

"I was wondering…" James grinned sheepishly. "I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but what's your name?"

The professor stared, surprised. He obviously had been expecting something much more profound. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten that…" his voice drifted. "I'm Remus Lupin."

Fascinating name, James mused. Mr. Lupin's parents must have had a strange obsession with wolves.

"Are you a teacher?" James asked curiously.

Mr. Lupin's face finally betrayed surprise. "Yes."

James grinned. "I knew it! I've been suspecting it since last night. You act like one, no offense or anything. What do you teach?"

Mr. Lupin was definitely getting more expressive, or was James just becoming more perceptive? This time, he could distinctly see the anxiety in Mr. Lupin's posture despite his unreadable smile.

"Defense."

James stared at the man across from him, trying to re-evaluate his first impression of the stranger. A martial arts teacher? James wondered apprehensively. Is he serious?

"Were you… my teacher?"

"Yes," Remus said simply.

James' thoughts began to flounder. "Just my teacher?" James asked hesitantly. "I mean, there were no other ties between us? I mean, you seem…" …closer than just a teacher…

Remus set his teacup down and looked at his hands for a long time. "I'm only a teacher," he said finally.

The room fell into another tense silence, and their weak attempt at conversation sank back in stagnant waters.

"I'm sorry; I'm making you uneasy again." With a soft, almost defeated sigh, Remus lifted his head and looked at him wearily. "If you have questions, please ask them. You don't have to feel obligated to dance around the subject."

Suddenly, the game fell apart. If it had been a game at all. All the time, James had been running in circles at the entranceway, afraid of confronting his past, but Remus had completely flung open the door.

What was there to say? James wondered desperately. He didn't remember what he didn't know; his brain was an absolute blank. What could I ask? Excuse me, sir, but I know absolutely nothing… so could you please give me a condensed summary of my entire life? How did I get a tattoo like that on my back? How come I seem to know Latin?

Why did that happen to me…?

James couldn't speak.

Remus closed his eyes in resignation. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay… I mean, it's just that…" James sank back in his chair and peered at Remus over the rim of his cup. "All this is really confusing. I hadn't been expecting any of this. I was okay with everything before, even though I couldn't remember anything. I liked my school, I liked my home, and I liked my friends. And then, all of a sudden" – James gestured blindly with his hand – "this happens. It wasn't what I expected. I was too used to being normal…" James abruptly grew quiet.

Remus' eyes had followed his right arm when James had idly waved it, and with a sinking stomach, James suddenly realized the loose sleeve of his shirt had slipped to his elbow at the gesture. The thick web of scars that stretched with the curve of his wrist to the crook of his elbow was faintly illuminated by the dim light, and Remus' gaze was fixed on those grooves unblinkingly. The blood that drained from his face seemed to have drained from his eyes as well; they were hazy, almost white as they watched him.

"Harry," Remus breathed out in one quick gasp. "What…?"

"It's the light," James hastily said. Instinctively, he dragged his sleeve over his arm again; it was only in an afterthought did he consider it probably made himself look more agitated. "The lace on the curtains make these patterns, and…"

"No. Don't lie, Harry. What's happened to your arm?" Remus' voice was unnervingly calm again, but there was a dangerous edge to it that reflected in his eyes.

"Nothing!" he protested. "It's the light!"

Remus stood in one swift motion; startled, James clambered out of his seat. But the professor belied his thin frame, and caught James by the elbow before he managed to take a step away. James was trapped; his windpipe seemed to have adhered to his spine and he was frozen where he stood. Pale almost beyond recognition, Remus reached forward and slid the stiff sleeve back.

Remus tensed at the first glimpse of his wrist. James' other arm snapped up before he even willed it, and caught Remus' hand before he pushed the sleeve to his elbow.

"This…" Remus seemed barely able to speak.

"I was bitten by a dog!" James almost shouted those words. "It was a big stray that lived in the alleyway beside the orphanage. I was taking out the trash one day and it just bit me." He wasn't even aware of what he was saying, and the lies slipped out before he could even question why he was lying, or why he was afraid. "It's nothing important. It's just a dog bite!"

"No," Remus' voice was low. "These scars are too deep."

"It was a big dog!" James protested. A distant part of his mind noted that he sounded almost frantic. "I was trying to pull my arm away, so it left all these grooves, and…"

Remus' frown deepened. "These are not animal bites."

"Yes, they are!" With a terrified jerk, James wrenched his arm out of Remus' grasp and backed away.

Remus did not follow him again, though his eyes never shifted from James' face. It was as if a veil had fallen over him then. His features were heavy and shadowed, and darkening with a frightening realization.

"Please tell me the truth," he whispered tensely. "How badly were you hurt when you woke up in the hospital?"

James blanched.

*

A lot of thanks to BellaMonte, my wonderful beta! Her crits made this chapter possible! The end probably didn't turn out so much like the original. When I went to rewrite it, it just suddenly came out and I couldn't take it away again. Urg. A bit too soon but I guess it doesn't hurt it too much.

James' character is somewhat strange in this one. I think… urg… well… I'll leave the bashing up to you. I promised that I will not bash so much in author's notes now that I have a beta, so I'm going to keep to it. Hope this chapter is up to everyone's standards. Thank you for sticking to this story even though I disappeared so long!

As for CoS… I think it will be continued now that I'm back… just… give it time, though that probably doesn't sound too reassuring, huh? Ack. Well…

Thank you for all those reviews even though I wasn't updating! They were constant reminders of what I should be paying attention to, and they were the reason why this wasn't abandoned completely. Can't say I wasn't terribly tempted at some points, but I'm glad you guys all stuck with me. Muchos muchos thank yous!

College has started. But I actually have… less classes and more time. It's amazing. I'm riveling in the fact that I have no roommate. A dorm. No parents. Fast internet. No roommate. Hopefully, this increases my productivity.