Chapter Four
Alexandra stared blankly at the doctor in front of her.
"So I was right," she said in a sad tone.
"Didn't you want to be?"
"I don't know. If I had been wrong then at least I would have had some answers…Now I just have more questions."
"Alexan—"
She held up a hand to silence him. "That isn't even my name. I'm no one, just a nameless face without a clue, nor a family."
He leaned back in frustration, "Don't think that way. Pessimism is not going to help you regain your memory."
She regarded him reproachfully, "That's a scientific fact, is it?"
"My own personal belief," he answered testily.
"Well your opinions aren't going to help me. What am I supposed to do? Where am I going to go? I have nothing besides the clothes on my back, and they aren't even real clothes! I am completely alone and I'd say that I've never been so frightened in my life, but I wouldn't know!"
Her uncontrollable sobs took over as she hid her face in her arms. The doctor watched her uneasily; he had never done well with crying females.
"I know more about your situation than you think. I may have a fully intact memory, but that doesn't make my past clear. I've never known my parents—or any member of my family for that matter. You aren't the only person who has no one else."
She stared on. That sounded so familiar, I've never known my parents…Maybe she was an orphan as well. That would just fulfill her life.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Sometimes it's just so simple to become immersed in your own problems that it blinds you completely."
"I spent years that way. Believe me, I understand. You don't have to do it alone though. There is help available to you…help that I only wish that I could have had.
"I need help," she responded in a tone barely above a whisper, "I know that. But something is telling me that I'd be better of doing it alone."
"You're never better of alone," Jack stated. "Let me help you, please. I have six spare bedrooms, none of which are in use…you'd never even have to see me if you didn't want to," he ended lightly.
"I…that is extremely gracious of you, but I couldn't take advantage of you in that way. I all ready know that you paid my bills—and I'll pay you back, I swear it—I couldn't take any more charity from you."
"It isn't charity. I want to help you, let me."
"You don't even know me. I don't even know me! Why would you do that for me?"
"It's complicated."
"Well I have all the time in the world."
"I, on the other hand, do not. I'm on call at the ER for the next six hours. Get some sleep…You're being released in the morning, when I'm off-call I'll come back, you may inform me of your decision then."
She stared on silently; he had all ready lost her to her thoughts. Jack sighed and walked out of the room, he so desperately wanted to understand her. He had a feeling that he needed to.
Harry tapped his foot impatiently; Malfoy was taking his sweet time releasing that information.
"You know, Malfoy, we could begin at any time."
"My apologies, Potter, I was unaware of the time clause in our contract."
Harry glared in response. The contract had all ready caused him regret…and it had only been five minutes. Never sign a blood contract, he had always been told…They're tightly bond with strong magic, and rarely a good idea to agree to. If it helped Ginny though—if he could save her somehow…then the payment of death would be little to ask. It was nothing he couldn't afford.
"Talk," Harry said while taking out his wand, "before I make you."
"As stated, your threats mean little. However, I am a busy man, so I shall give you your information, and then be gone from my sight."
"I would love nothing more than to leave and never lay eyes on you again, so let's get started."
"Very well. She is in America."
"The U.S.? Where?"
"This I know not. The Dark Lord has only recently discovered this."
"That's your information then? You narrowed my search down to a country with three hundred million people!"
"Good luck with your search," Malfoy said sadistically.
She sat decisively on the edge of the newly made hospital bed. She had slept…she had dreamed…and she was going home with her doctor.
Her dreams were growing steadily worse. She still had trouble recalling any of them—but the feeling upon waking up was enough. She didn't want to be alone, she knew that much.
There was still time before Jack was off-call…she snatched the pad of paper that was on the nightstand along with a pen, and she unconsciously began to draw.
Hair—thick, dark hair. Eyes—expressive and deep. The head took on character rapidly, every detail etched from a memory that she couldn't recall. She drew without stop nor breath for what seemed to be hours. Near perfection stared up at her, but something was missing…
Her hand glided without direction from her mind. A scar appeared momentarily on the forehead of her subject, and it was complete. She stared wondrously at the picture before folding it carefully and placing it in the breast pocket atop her heart.
Harry stood irritably in the center of a muggle airport. He unconsciously rubbed his scar as he contemplated the situation. It wasn't a good idea to use magic any longer…it was too easily traced and tracked. No one could follow him; no one could know what he was doing. No matter, he knew of no spells that would assist him anyhow.
After transforming a fair chunk of his Gringotts account to muggle money, he had taken the first available flight to America. Three hundred million people or not, if she was here, he would find her. He had to.
The first flight turned out to be to New York…it seemed like a good place to start.
However, that sentiment changed dramatically upon arriving at…where the hell was he? Harry's eyes drifted upwards to a nearby sign—JFK Airport. Unpleasant place, indeed. He grumbled his way through the crowd and ignored the shoves into his torso as he made his way to baggage claim.
He had only brought one bag with him, a duffel bag purchased at an airport store in London. The clothes filling the bag had also been bought at the airport while he waited for his flight. He knew enough about muggle fashion to know that these clothes were not in the least bit stylish…but nor did he care.
Ginny. Simply being in America gave him the feeling that he was close to her. He was finally doing something; he was finally participating in the search for her. For the first time in a long time he wasn't useless to her.
He tossed his bag over his shoulder and made his way outside. He needed someplace to go…someplace to begin his search. He needed a contact.
Unfortunately, everyone whom he could think to call upon was magical. And anyone from magical descent was simply unacceptable at the moment. He had money. Perhaps not as much as he once had…but enough to bribe a few people, he supposed.
He thought back briefly to Muggle Studies (Hermione had insisted upon Ron and he taking it) and what he had learned in school before he knew of Hogwarts existence. The States weren't something discussed in large detail. He knew that Americans had originally been British…and there was something about a tea scandal and then they began calling themselves Americans, started a war, and now they defiantly refuse to have a proper tea time.
Nothing about that information helped him, though. He needed someone to help him find Ginny, and right now he was drawing a complete blank.
"What else do I know about Americans?" he wondered aloud. And, more specifically, he needed to know about Americans in New York. Nothing, he realized with anger, he knew absolutely nothing useful. They drove on the wrong side of the road, held far too many elections, and they had Ginny!
He leaned against a wall with a sigh. He needed some sort of help, he would get nowhere on his own. Harry bit his lip in contemplation before making a decision. It was meant for emergencies only and there was the fear that it could be traced and he could be tracked down…but it was the only thing he could think of.
He pulled a cellular telephone out of his suitcase. Hermione had bought three and placed various charms upon each. He, she, and Ron kept their "cell phones" with them at all times. They worked on magic, rather than signals as Hermione said the muggles' did. Muggle devices didn't work in the magical world, their technology failed. So for the phones to work, magic was the only solution. Because they worked on magic, though, they could be traced by the Ministry…but he desperately needed to contact Hermione.
Harry pressed the send button down and hoped for the best.
"Alexandria?"
"My name isn't Alexandria," she responded automatically.
Jack sighed. "What should I call you, then?"
She shrugged.
"You need a name."
"I have a name," she snapped, "I just can't recall it at the moment."
"Well, until you do, don't you think you should come up with something to be called?"
"Fine. Pick a name, then."
"It will be your name," he pointed out, "so don't you want to have a say in it?"
"No one has a say in their name. When they are born their parents name them and in most circumstances that is the name they go by for the rest of their lives. So, no, I don't think I should have a say in it, because no one else does."
Her hand unconsciously touched her breast pocket where her drawing was currently hidden. "I'm sorry. I am just in a really horrible mood at the moment…I don't mean to take it out on you."
"It's fine. We'll just think of the name thing later, then."
"No, you're right. We might as well do it now. Who do I look like?"
"Pardon?"
She blushed at the obscurity of the conversation. "What kind of name do I look like? I'm not an Alexandria…but maybe something else would fit me."
"Julie?"
She wrinkled her nose, "No."
"Samantha?"
"That doesn't sound right either. May I see a mirror?"
"Of course you may."
She followed Jack down a hallway and into a large bathroom. She stepped closely to the mirror, gasping at the sight. There had been no mirror in her room at the hospital. She had been curious to see herself, but every time she asked for a mirror, some excuse was given to her. Now she understood why. The cuts on her face…and the bruises…she was so…
"Ugly," she whispered aloud. "I am absolutely hideous."
"Scraps and bruises do not make a person ugly, you know. Those will heal with time."
"The cuts will scar. At least, the deeper ones will, especially—" she stopped short. For the first time, she noticed the cut on her forehead. It was identical to the one she had drawn this afternoon. "May I be alone for a moment?" she asked.
"Of course," Jack responded as he quietly left the bathroom, shutting the door on his way out.
Once alone, she pulled the drawing out of her pocket and stared at it intently. The boy that she had drawn…his scar was identical to the gash on her head. The same strange lightening bolt shape…It couldn't be a coincidence, she decided. She drew in a quick breath as she imagined the pain she must have endured as someone carved that into her forehead. It was far too perfect to have been anything other than intentional. Someone had wanted that there.
She looked again at the man in her drawing. Maybe he was her torturer; perhaps he was some insane freak that wanted them to have matching scars. Or maybe he was no one at all…just a figment of her imagination. It was possible that the scar had come from her suppressed memories, right?
She sighed. He was too familiar, though. She hadn't just made him up, she was sure of it. He was a part of her past…she just couldn't recall which part.
She slipped out of the bathroom and into a room across the hall. She wanted to draw again…maybe drawing would release more figures of her memory, and then maybe one of them would spark that lost memory and everything would make sense again.
This room appeared to be a library or study of sorts. She went to the desk and opened up the first drawer. She easily found a notebook of paper and a pencil was already lying on the desk.
When she opened up the notebook, though, a drawing already resided there. She had not drawn it, yet it invoked the same feeling in the pit of her stomach as if she had. She slid her chair away from the drawing and felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She didn't want to be near that drawing…there was something about it that frightened her.
She bravely peered over to it once more. There was nothing immediately "scary" about it. It was odd, to be sure, but not something that should make her feel ill. It was only a skull with a snake wrapped around it…nothing to fear.
She shook her head, she was just being jumpy. To fear a picture, really, it was laughable. Except, she had no desire to laugh, she only had the urge to cry once more.