Chapter Six
August 10th 2002
The intern checked the results on her chart against what she observed on the screens. His heartbeat was stable, which was a constant surprise, considering the damage he had received at the hands of -
Well, at the hands of something.
The doctors hadn't figured that out yet; Which was also strange. The entire class had been told by the Stanford Medical School staff, that as much as they were hoping to go out into the hospitals on placement and encounter medical mysteries that only they could solve, it was unlikely.
She had craved a medical mystery, just like everyone else in her class. She had just been lucky enough to get one.
They were likely to encounter plenty of mundane and easily explainable medical problems. They were likely to encounter the curable and the incurable. But generally they would be able to diagnose most issues, even with their limited experience.
It was not said to them to give them a sense of arrogance or self-assuredness. Far from it. It was mentioned to stop them from looking for the most out-there medical issues, and to keep them centred and grounded.
"When you hear hooves," one professor had told them. "Think horses, not zebras."
She had liked the expression. She used it to keep her focusing on the most likely diagnosis, instead of looking for exotic medical conditions.
Except in this case. He was a man, or a boy. Could be either. It was semantics at that point. He was malnourished, but not to the point that it was a medical concern. More likely, he was just underfed.
Probably around 18, not much younger than herself. He had dark, raven hair that was all kinds of messed up. He took bed head to an extreme, that was for certain. But he had been with them for more than a week. A transfer from Bristol, he had been brought to St Thomas's since he was exactly what they had been told not to expect.
He was a medical mystery.
He had some signs of trauma, but none that explained the damage. No excessive bleeding. No strangulation or a lack of oxygen to the brain. There had been some damage to the hippocampus and the temporal lobes of his brain, but how he had managed to suffer such oddly specific injuries was unknown.
The most miraculous part was that they were healing. While the intern, as an intern, had never seen that before, neither had most of the medical staff and experts who had looked him over.
He was deeply and completely unconscious while his body ticked over. Truth be told, from what she had seen from his chart and overheard from the doctors during rounds, it seemed that they were just watching him. His body seemed to be doing the healing, more than anything the medical staff were doing.
His insides were one part completely fine, and another part completely shut down.
Some people suspected he had been electrocuted or struck by lightning. The problem with that, of course, was that there was no internal scarring. Just organs which seemed to have called it quits.
Well, gone on strike really. They were slowly being coerced back to work. But not by modern medicine. The medicine was just sustaining him; his body seemed to be doing the work.
The intern looked down upon his sleeping face. He looked at peace. He honestly looked like he was asleep in his own bed, waiting for an alarm clock to wake him.
Naturally, he had bandages around certain parts of him. His lower abdomen where he had suffered an impaled object, his upper arm where he had suffered from a burn, and his head, which had been bleeding profusely, when he had been found.
Judging from the locker room conversation she had overheard; she was not alone in her thoughts on just how attractive he was. He was handsome, there was no denying that. Even if he was a bit slight.
He had been christened the 'Dream Boat Dreamer', by some of the nurses. She had heard a few of her fellow interns using the expression also.
The most eye-catching element of him was the scar. Located on his forehead, to his right-hand side, just below his hairline, was a distinct lightning-bolt scar.
It was an odd scar, not just because of how neat it was, but because of the way it seemed to be a healing wound that was already scar tissue. It was almost as if some had recut over an already healed scar. It was yet another oddity in the case of the 'Dream Boat Dreamer'.
The intern had been present when they had removed the dressing and she had seen it for the first time. It was so distinctive, so very neat.
She yawned, checked her watch, and saw the late hour. She had many more to go before her shift was finished. They say shift work takes years of your life, and right there in that moment, the intern could believe it.
She finished up her paperwork and turned to leave, when she heard a small sigh.
She looked down upon him.
He lay as she had last seen him. Peaceful. Sleeping. Waiting to wake up.
I need another coffee.
She turned again to leave when she heard it again, more distinct this time. A deeper sigh.
She froze and turned to look at him.
His eyes were squeezed shut now. The look of peace had gone from his face. He looked like a deep sleeper who had had an unpleasantly bright light shone into his face.
"Hmm," he groaned, softly.
The intern froze and looked down at her chart.
What should she do? Should she call the on-call doctor?
She shook herself, was it really worth waking him over this? He'd be pissed off if she woke him, and it was all for nothing.
Her fingers tapped uncertainly on her chart. What to do, what to do?
"Mmmmm," he groaned, a bit more insistently.
Her medical training told her to go and get a nurse and bring them in. Nurses had dealt with most things before and were always a good place to go for advice.
But her feet wouldn't obey her. Instead, they carried her back to the bed. She sat down gently on the side of the bed and watched as his head started to gently move from side to side.
He was a deep sleeper waiting to wake up.
Automatically, she reached out and took a hold of his hand. She didn't know why she did it, it just seemed like the right thing to do. She had felt almost compelled to reach out.
His eyes slowly blinked open.
What a shade of green!
What a bright shade of emerald!
He blinked several times, before he turned his head to look at her.
The intern didn't know what to do, so she offered him a small smile.
"Hey there," she said softly. "Welcome back."
He opened his mouth to speak, but a croak came out. His mouth opened several times, but he seemed confused as his words refused to come.
The intern smiled gently at him. "One moment."
She went to his bedside table and poured a generous amount of water into a paper cup and raised it to his lips. He drank vigorously for a few gulps, before it overwhelmed him.
He coughed and spluttered.
She pulled the water away and put it on the bedside table.
"Better?"
He nodded.
Those. Eyes.
The intern couldn't help but stare.
"Hi," he managed.
"Hello," she said with a warm smile, gripping his hand.
"You've been out for about ten days. We've all been pretty worried about you," she said kindly.
"I'm sorry." He genuinely looked to be.
She smiled again. "No need to be. No need at all. We're just glad you're back with us."
"Where am I? Who are you?" he said, his voice still raspy from lack of use.
"My name is Peyton. I'm one of the interns here at St Thomas's Hospital in London. Like I said, you've been out for about ten days. What's your name? I'm sure there are people out there who are worried sick about you." She offered him an encouraging smile. "I'm sure they'd like for us to get in touch with them."
She gave his hand another squeeze.
He looked confused. His eyes narrowed. His jaw slackened. He looked like a man feeling for his keys that he knows are in his pocket, only to find they aren't there. He looked like that only on a much larger scale.
"I-uh. I…"
Peyton watched as the panic started to set in. Peyton watched as the fear started to set in.
"I don't know."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Saturday, August 25th, 2012
"So, you don't know how you got your scars?"
James shook his head.
"Well, a few. I have added to the collection in my ten years." His eyes shone brightly. He took too much pride in that.
"Hazards of the job?" she asked gently.
He offered her a small smile and he nodded.
Their eyes met again. His deep pools of green met her orbs of brown.
The small smile slowly faded. Hermione could tell that he was as caught up in the intensity of the moment as she was. His eyes blazed with affection. With curiosity. With questions.
She gently squeezed his hand, before gently letting it go.
They didn't break eye contact as her hand slowly reached out towards his face. She didn't dare to breathe as her hand made its journey towards him. Her fingers extended towards his face.
For his part, he didn't blink. He barely glanced at her hand. Instead, he kept his eyes locked into her. The inquisitive look returned to the edges of his eyes, but mostly his eyes remained bored into her. Affectionate. Nervous. Scared?
Her hand paused just millimetres from his face. Ever so slowly, she raised an eyebrow. A question. Asking for permission.
He slowly, but determinedly nodded at her.
She could sense his nervousness. Harry had hated anyone touching his scar, so Hermione assumed that it was safe to say that James would be the same. It had caused so much trouble for him throughout his life. It had connected him to Voldemort. He had been mind-to-mind with a madman, for most of his young life.
As her fingers gently touched his face around the scar, she could feel him tense slightly as her palm made contact. He quickly relaxed into her gentle touch. She could have sworn she even heard a small sigh. The slight relaxation into her hand sent a wave of happiness through her, despite herself. She felt in that moment like it was ten years ago, like they were still best friends. Like when he had allowed her to touch him, like no one else was allowed. Like she still had him.
The scar had also become a symbol, a badge of office for being 'The Boy who Lived'. Then later, the symbol of those who fought against Voldemort. The symbol for those who brought the fight to him, to his followers.
Harry had hated that. He would have much preferred a stag. He had told her that once. At least a stag would have shown fight. More so than a lightning bolt.
Hermione remembered the times that Harry would feel the connections strengthen with Voldemort and the incredible pain that would bring him. He once told her that, sometimes, it felt like his head was about to completely split open. She had been heartbroken to hear that in his darkest times, he had almost wished for death, just so the pain would end.
She closed her eyes and whispered beneath her breath a charm of diagnosis.
She saw, in her mind's eye, that the scar flashed a dull green, before slowly fading back to nothingness.
Good.
There was no longer any dark magic affecting the scar. It was completely benign. It was just another scar, a mark upon his face that he would carry forever.
She had suspected as much from how faded it had become, but she had to be sure.
She quickly cast another diagnosis charm on the rest of his head. She could hardly rub James's head forever, as much as she didn't think that would be a bad way to spend her life.
Stop it.
A dull blue light flashed around James's head, almost like a halo.
Hmm. That was more troubling. Blue meant that there was a measure of magical activity there that was having a latent effect. If it was just his normal powers, existing in a dormant state, there would have been a flash of dull white. Blue implied that something else was going on. Something that required further investigation to diagnose.
She sighed. She would need to run a proper diagnosis of him to figure out what was going on there. But there was no way she could do that without his complete cooperation. That would take time and work - and explanations she wasn't able to give him yet.
She gently raised her hand up to run her hand through his unruly, raven, hair. She saw his eyes close, and he sighed softly, sending another wave of happiness through her.
Tell him.
Eventually, with much resistance from herself, she pulled her hand from his hair and back to his hand on the table.
"Interesting," she said out loud.
"How's that?" James asked looking like he couldn't believe what had just happened.
"Oh. The hypertrophic scar tissue doesn't run beneath the skin. Normally, in a scar as ingrained as yours, there would be a measure of what would feel like bumpy or rough skin underneath it. But yours is completely smooth. It's like a scar that came from nowhere, like a birthmark."
James looked at her for a good long time. He said nothing.
"Thanks for trusting me," she gave his hand another squeeze. "I'm guessing you don't let people do that very often."
James just shook his head.
"It doesn't come up very often."
"People don't talk about your scar?" she enquired gently.
"Oh no. People bring that up all the time," he said with a snort. "I've been in the military for almost ten years, Hermione. It's been brought up and mentioned in just about every way you can imagine. And many ways you can't."
She smiled. He continued.
"Scarface. Bolt. Ackadacka. Thunderstruc," he casually listed nicknames. "And that's just from Lucky." He gave her a small smile, again trying to break the tension, trying to keep it light.
"Sorry, but Ackadacka?"
James rolled his eyes. "AC DC. The rock band. Lucky is an Aussie."
Hermione smiled knowingly. It hadn't come up previously.
"We don't get to choose our callsigns. I got Thor. Could have been worse, I suppose." Hermione was back to her strategy of silence. "I just prefer to hide it. I hate when people stare. It's annoying. Can't blame them, I guess. It is what it is. I'm kind of used to it. But when people laugh at me because of it, that gets my back up."
Hermione didn't say anything. Frustratingly, neither did James.
They sat in silence. Again, not awkward. But silence nonetheless.
Hermione remembered Monday, when he thought that she had been laughing at him. How he had glumly put his hat back on his head. The look in his eye, and that he wouldn't meet hers. Hermione suspected that it would have been different, had it been his mates, laughing at her. But she didn't voice her thoughts.
James was looking at their hands, entwined on the table. She could feel his thumb gently drawing small shapes on the back of her hand. She liked it. She couldn't even begin to describe how she liked it.
"James," she said softly.
He looked up at her. His green eyes were full of affection.
"You know that I'm a neurologist, right?" He nodded, absently.
She bit her lip nervously.
"I have done a lot of study on the human brain. It's my field. What if I could help you? With your memory, I mean. What if I could help to give you back what you lost?"
James's thumb stopped its little drawings on her skin.
She immediately missed it.
He broke eye contact and stared over her shoulder. He began clenching and unclenching his jaw several times thoughtfully.
"Is that what this is?" His voice was soft. There was a hint of danger.
His hand retreated from hers. Hermione immediately felt its absence. His injured hand came from the bucket of ice and he folded the both of them across his chest, sitting back in his chair. His eyes lost their bright colour. Cold crept into their warmth, like a fast-forward video of a lake freezing over.
"Is what, what what is?" What had she done?
"Is that what this is? Are you here to make a name for yourself? You want to pull the sword from the stone?" His voice was like rocks. Disappointment and anger edged into his eyes and his words.
"James – no!"
Oh God.
How had that gone so wrong?
"I'm not a dissertation waiting to happen. I'm not a test tube, a fucking experiment. If that's why you've been here this whole time, then you've wasted your time. I'm not going to be poked and prodded and tested again. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime."
Hermione was speechless.
How had she messed this up so badly?
"James."
"Look. I'm sorry. I think I got the wrong idea." He finished the last sip of his drink and stood. "I. Uh. I thought - Look. Never mind what I thought. I best head home. Thanks for the drink."
"James." Her hand reached out and grabbed his arm. "James. Please. That's not what I meant!"
His cold green pools met her desperate brown orbs.
He stopped in his tracks.
"That's not at all what I meant. Not at all. I would never! Please, don't go."
He looked at her thoughtfully. His mouth opened and closed several times.
Then he took off towards the door.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
August 14th 2002
There was a knock on the door and a nurse stuck her head in. "Oh, hello Peyton, didn't realise you were in here."
James looked over at Peyton, busily eating her cafeteria salad, in the chair next to his bed. His own food had been demolished already. He was always hungry.
She had taken to eating her lunch in his room and sitting with him during her downtime. James was grateful. So far, no one had come looking for him. No one had called, no one had sought him out. The doctors and nurses had been unable to find any missing persons reports that matched his description.
He had welcomed her company. She was bright and funny and did a good job of making him laugh when he felt he had nothing to laugh about. It wasn't like all the doctors were like her though. A few had been rude, and outright accused him of lying about his medical condition.
Peyton had taken to the Dream Boat Dreamer, or as he had finally chosen to name himself. James.
Peyton nodded. "Just having lunch with James, Judith."
The nurse nodded.
"James, there are two Policemen here who would like to have a conversation with you, if that's okay?"
James tensed up. It wasn't entirely unexpected. It had been explained to him that the Police would likely be around at some point to talk to him.
He just nodded. "Sure."
Judith nodded and disappeared.
Moments later the door was filled with two men in suits who entered the hospital room. The first one was a man of average height and a slight build. His dark skin was accompanied by dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark beard. He wore rectangular glasses on his face, and a neat grey suit. In fact, it was more than neat, it was immaculate.
He was accompanied by a larger man. Burly. He was north of six feet and had a full head of dark hair and a clean-shaven face. He looked around the hospital room?, as if investigating all the machines and computers that were connected to James.
"Good afternoon, James, is it?" spoke the dark-skinned man. I am Detective Inspector Thompson, and this is Detective Sergeant Piddle, from Scotland Yard." DI Thompson held out a hand, which James shook. The DS then followed suit, but he said nothing.
"And who may you be?" The DI said politely, turning towards Peyton who stood.
"Doctor Peyton Ward. One of the interns here."
"Nice to meet you, Doctor," said the DI, shaking her hand. The DS followed suit. Again, he said nothing.
Peyton sat back down and looked at the two Policemen, expectantly. They had clearly thought that she would leave at that point, but she didn't.
The two detectives looked at each other, then back down to James.
"We are from the Homicide and Major Crime Command of the Metropolitan Police Service. We were hoping we might have a conversation with you, today, about certain events that have led to your hospitalisation."
James realised he didn't know much about the Police services in the United Kingdom, but he suspected that 'Homicide and Major Crime Command' detectives weren't commonly sent to converse with reverse, missing persons cases.
James shared a look with Peyton. Clearly, she knew more about the Police Services and agreed with his assessment.
The two men took a seat by his bed and pulled out a large folder. The DS pulled out a large notebook, while the DI held the file. The DI also produced a handheld recording device.
"But before I do, I must inform you that you do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence, if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
James was reeling. His heart began pounding. Was he being arrested? Was he in trouble? What happened?
James's breath became heavier as he tried to understand the situation.
"Is James under arrest?" Peyton asked, looking straight at the DI.
"No, no. Not at this time." The DI said as kindly as those words could be said. "We just need to ask him some questions. I'm a stickler for procedure you see. You don't have to be here, for this, if you don't like, doctor. Your patient will be perfectly fine in our care."
"With all due respect Detective Inspector," Peyton began, her voice strong and unrelenting. "James is a vulnerable adult. He has the right to an appropriate adult to be present during questioning."
The DI nodded. "He most certainly does. We have contacted several Social Workers who will be only too happy to come down and provide that service, as it is our understanding that James has no identified family or friends."
"I have Peyton." James said, not looking her in the eye. "I choose her; if she'll stay."
Peyton leaned back almost smugly in her chair. "I'll stay."
"Of course. Not a problem. You also have the right to a legal representative to be present during questioning." The DI said as if nothing had happened.
"Okay." He thought for a moment. "I'm fine without one thanks."
Peyton gave him a look. She clearly didn't agree, but she didn't voice her concerns.
The DI started a recording, whereby he introduced himself, the DS, Peyton and finally he got to James.
"If the suspected person would please provide their full name and date of birth for the benefit of the recording."
"James Evan Black. I don't know my date of birth."
The DI and DS both looked at him curiously, then at each other.
"Right. Well, for the record, Mr Black, herein referred to as the suspected person, awoke in hospital four days prior, date being August 10th, 2002, and has alleged to having no memory of any event up until he regained consciousness."
"I don't remember anything!" James said hotly. His voice rose slightly in anger. He was confused, he didn't know what was going on, but it all sounded bad.
"The following is an interview being conducted by Detective Inspector Rufus Thompson, and Detective Sergeant Paul Piddle, of the Metropolitan Police Service, Homicide and Major Crimes section. The interview is being conducted at St Thomas's hospital on this day, the 14th of August 2002."
James's head was spinning. What was happening?
"This interview forms part of a joint investigation between the Metropolitan Police Service and the Avon and Somerset Police, in relation to the suspicious death of a yet unidentified, male person near the town of Godric's Hollow, located in the county of Somerset, of the United Kingdom, about 31st July 2002."
All the words simultaneously sunk and flew over James's head. Homicide? Suspicious death?
It had done nothing to calm him. Was he a murderer? Had he killed someone?
Surely not. But maybe? How the hell would he know? He wasn't even sure who he was.
The DI continued.
"Mr Black, if you could state for the benefit of the recording, your recollection of the events surrounding the 31st of July, 2001. Your actions and whereabouts."
"I don't remember."
The DI sighed. He had been expecting that.
"You have no apparent memory of the events that led to your hospitalisation?"
"Yes. Except it's not apparent, it's true. I can't remember. We've been over this."
Peyton snickered.
"Dr Peyton Ward, is there any expert medical information you can shed about the state of Mr Black's memory?"
Peyton looked questioningly at James, who just shrugged and nodded.
"For the benefit of the recording," she began. It wasn't as though she was making a mockery of the process, but James thought she might be making a mockery of the process. "James has given me permission to share this. It would seem that during the course of the injuries, James has suffered severe retrograde amnesia. Likely caused by a severe shock to the head, causing the brain to move around within the skull. This has harmed his brain tissue and has caused Traumatic Brain Injury or TBI. It is noted, however, that his brain appears to be healing and it is expected that the only long-term effect of his current condition is that he may not get his memory back."
"Is that common?" Asked the DS, speaking finally.
"No. Most people who suffer from TBI can have it treated, but no cure is available. James's case is a medical anomaly."
"Right." Said the DS.
"Mr Black. I'd like to show you some photographs if you would care to take a look at them. I must warn you in advance that they are images of a deceased person, but I'm hoping they may promote some memory gain. I would just like to be clear in telling you that we are looking to find out the truth about what happened. That is all. No one is here to accuse you of anything you did not do. Do you understand?"
James nodded.
"Apologies, I need a verbal response."
"Yes. I understand."
"Thank you." The DI opened the folder and produced several photographs, placing them on the bed in front of James.
James looked down at the images and winced.
That was a person?
James picked up an image with shaking hands and held it in front of him.
He did not look like a person, not any person James had seen in his last four days of consciousness, that's for sure. Even then, while he had no memory, he had retained plenty of inherent knowledge. He could still do things, walk, run, jump. He just didn't know why he still knew how to do other more complex tasks. Write, spell, make coffee, or even prepare meals.
James knew that a human being was not supposed to look like that. The 'person' had a pale bald head. Veins popped out from a skull, that looked so bald that he had to have alopecia. James didn't know how he knew what alopecia was, but he did.
He had no nose, just two slits, like a snake, for nostrils.
But it was the eyes. They were open and lifeless, but James felt his stomach turn uncomfortably under their lifeless stare. Red. They were red eyes, with cat-like slits that passed as his pupils.
Peyton leaned over and gave a brief, 'Oh' sound.
She was used to seeing all manner of bodies, in all manner of ways, but even she seemed affected by the pictures.
"Who was it – he?" He forced himself to say.
"We were hoping you could tell us. Obviously, this individual had some substantial body modifications, many of which we have never seen before, even in the underbellies of London. We have not been able to identify him."
James picked up the last photo. It was from the side. The individual was splayed out. A wooden beam had pierced his middle and he was impaled upon it. James didn't think that was a good way to go.
But something inside of him stirred at the image. Good . Came the thought, unbidden. He didn't know why, but he was glad that the person, if you could still call him that, was dead. It was almost like he was relieved. James didn't know why, but he had a feeling that it wasn't just him that should be relieved about the death of this person.
"I don't know." James said, honestly. "I don't know – "
The door to the Hospital room shot open and two men and a woman walked in. They wore immaculate suits, black, with a white shirt and a tie, black. The woman didn't wear a tie.
The two men were the muscle. There was absolutely no doubt about it. One was large and imposing, larger even than the DS who stood as soon as they entered. The other was shorter than his colleague, maybe James's height, with a slight build and a bored expression that reeked of confidence. He had almost a 'try me' attitude.
The woman looked to be in her mid to late thirties. She was pretty, in a severe sort of way. She had blonde hair that was tied into a neat bun. She walked in and smiled at them all. The smile was not a pleasant one, but it was meant to be. It was the same kind of smile that someone would give, in an attempt to put people at ease, despite knowing full well that they were the reason that nobody was at ease.
"Can I help you?" the DI stood. He was annoyed. The man was a stickler for procedure after all, and this was not procedure.
"Good morning," she said pleasantly. Too pleasantly. "Detective Inspector Thompson, Detective Sergeant Biddle. My name is Mrs Jones. These two men here are Mr Smith and Mr Rogers. We are from Military Intelligence, Section 5. We've come here to relieve you of your investigation."
"What?" said the DI. "This is an ongoing investigation under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police. How is this a matter for MI5?"
Mrs Jones only smiled back at him. "That's of little relevance. We will take it from here."
The DI was fuming. The DS was eyeing off the two bodyguards with unhidden hatred. The smaller bodyguard had a small smile as he looked at the DS. He wanted the DS to try something. That much was clear.
"I need to call the Chief Inspector. This is highly out of order."
"Don't bother," came the bored reply. "Here's the paperwork signed by your Assistant Commissioner." She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to the DI. The DI's eyes darted across the page as he read, his anger growing with each line.
"This investigation ends, and all evidence will be turned over to MI5 for further review. My colleagues are already at your office retrieving the evidence, and they are in Bristol doing the same."
The DI looked like he was about to explode.
The tension was high, and James could only stare at the detectives as they stared at the spooks. James thought for a moment it might come to blows.
The tension was spoilt when there came a crash as James's water jug flew to the ground and the lid exploded, sending water flying everywhere. It rolled under James's bed where it came to a stop.
Truth be told, it probably wasn't that loud, but in the enclosed room with agents of the Government standing off at each other, it sounded much louder than it likely was.
"Sorry," said Peyton quietly, with a look of embarrassment on her face. She dove under the bed to retrieve the jug.
All eyes glanced at her, then back at each other.
"Let it go, Sergeant," said the DI finally, placing his hand on the DS's arm. "This isn't going to go our way. Let's go talk to Clark and find out what is going on."
"You do that," said Mrs Jones.
The DI and DS walked to the door and made to leave. As they walked through the door, the DI spared one last glance at James and Peyton, sitting in silence. The DI looked at Peyton, looked down at her hands folded over her lap. He gave her a small smile before he left.
"Mr Black." Mrs Jones turned to address him, that smile that did nothing but cause a small rumble of fear in the bottom of his stomach had returned to her face. "MI5 is most interested in you. Most interested. I think you and I are simply going to become the best of friends."
James just stared.
"How do you feel about helping your country?"
Why did that question fill him with a sense of dread?
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Saturday, August 25th, 2012
Hermione sunk back into her chair. No tears formed. Nothing. She felt empty. She felt numb. She didn't know what to do.
She just looked at the chair where he had been sitting just moments before. Where he had been talking. They had really talked. It had been so easy. It had been so wonderful. It had been the best day she had had in ten years.
And just like that, it was done. It was gone. Just like that, she had lost him. She had made a simple miscalculation and that was it.
She could still feel the absence of his hand in hers. She could feel the warmth receding from where he had sat. And the emptiness that built up in his place. An emptiness that just fucking hurt.
She didn't know what to do.
She just sat there.
How do I fix this?
I must be able to fix this.
I will fix this .
Ideas and thoughts started circulating in her head. But none of them gave her hope. None of them gave her that drive and pull to try it. None of them seemed practical. Nothing gave her that feeling that she would get when a thought or a plan genuinely excited her. That feeling that would have her up and about, working tirelessly to accomplish her quest.
Because that was what she felt. Nothing. Empty. Hollow.
Even worse than before.
A glass of red wine was set down gently in front of her.
Startled, she looked up, to see him place another bucket of ice on the table, and a fresh pint in front of himself as he sat back down.
She couldn't bring herself to speak as she just stared at him. Sitting down in front of her with an unreadable expression on his face.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, unable to look her in the eye. "I didn't know what to say. It's just a bit of a sensitive issue. The way I was treated by those people…" He shook his head. "Let's not go into it. Let's just say that people have tried everything you can think of, to try and get me to remember."
He seemed to scowl slightly at the memory.
"But I've no interest in going through that again. None whatsoever. I'm not a project designed to help someone's career. But I shouldn't have assumed that of you. You've been nothing but lovely to me. I was – I am" He cleared his throat. "I was being a bit unreasonable."
He held out his hand across the table towards her.
She took it without hesitation. The relief washing over her.
"Please don't apologise. I'm the one who is sorry. I should have known to approach that in a different way, especially after what you just told me."
"It's okay," he said, offering her a gentle smile. "Besides, I needed more ice." He placed his hand back into the ice with a sigh.
She relished the warmth of his hand back in hers.
I could get used to this.
She waited for that small part of her brain that was going to fight that.
Yes. I could .
She sighed.
Unhelpful.
He looked at her curiously. She shook her head with a small smile.
"Can we talk about this, please?" she asked. Trying to be tender. Trying to be understanding.
James shrugged. She felt his thumb begin to draw on the back of her hand again. It sent a shiver down her spine despite the heat of the day.
"I just want to help you with this. I find it impossible to believe that no one came looking for you, James. I think they are out there, looking for you. I can't help but believe that there are people who miss you, dearly. That there are friends and family out there who have never forgotten you. But this isn't about me. This is about you. I just want to see you happy. The medical field has had many – advancements – over the last ten years, and I suspect some of them might be able to help you."
It wasn't a lie if it was the truth, right?
Advancements. That was a good way to put it. Hide the magic behind technology. This was not the first time Hermione had done this; she had helped set up the program of temporarily transferring Healers into Muggle hospitals, after all. It was all taught that way. They had been taught how to become 'Miracle Workers' in a way that covered their tracks and kept the Muggles from asking questions.
Hermione tried desperately to get her point across. She looked deep into his eyes, willing him to let her help. Willing her to let her go to work and see if she could restore his memory.
"I appreciate that. I do." He began softly. "But, no thanks."
Hermione just sat in silence, biting her lip thoughtfully. She had never in a million years expected this to be his answer. It was frustrating for her. Why was he always so damned stubborn? Why couldn't he just agree for once in his bloody life and let someone actually help him.
"Hermione." He began by way of explanation. "I've lived like this for ten years. In that time, no one has ever reached out to me or tried to contact me. I was completely forgotten by my past. Which has helped me appreciate that I have completely forgotten it, too. Maybe, it's better this way. Why try and remember something that has forgotten me? I get what you are saying, I do. But there's no sign of that. I've nothing to suggest that people have looked for me."
Tell him.
She felt her heart break again. He truly believed that. But she had. As soon as she had been up and about following her own mending, she had called and visited every hospital she could find looking for him. She had been to St Thomas's. They had told her nothing. Not a thing. Maybe she needed to pay them another visit and check their records department.
"But-"
"I have a good life. I have a group of best mates that I get to see every day. I have Peyton, who has been with me through everything that I can remember going through. I have Lucky, who keeps me on an even keel. Not to mention their daughter, Lilly. Who you've just got to meet, you know, should you want to?"
Colour rushed into his cheek at the last bit.
"And now that we have –" he cut himself off. His cheeks began to shine even brighter.
"We have…?" Hermione asked, as gently as she could. Her own heart was beginning to pound in her chest.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it." James wouldn't meet her eye, choosing to continue to stare at their linked hands on the table.
"James." She said, her voice as kind as possible, pushing without prying. "You said you had the wrong idea before. What idea did you have?"
He didn't meet her eye. Instead, he looked at their hands and he shrugged.
She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Trying her best to not look as nervous as she felt. Why was she so nervous?
Because look at him.
Yeah, look at him.
Great. Now even her mind was betraying her.
"I just thought – you know. I just. Well."
Hermione remained silent.
Tell him
Finally, his eyes looked up to meet hers. "Look. I don't just hold hands with anyone."
Hermione blushed a furious shade of pink.
Oh.
It was like something passed between them. Something that went unsaid. Something that neither of them were willing to say. Hermione didn't know if she was ready to say it. She had never meant this. Never. She was still struggling to figure out how this came about. Had it always been there? Was this new? Is it just because he didn't know her?
Finally, she stood. She walked around to his side of the table. His eyes were locked onto hers the entire time.
She reached down and gave him a soft, tender kiss on his forehead, right on his scar. The kiss lingered for slightly longer than even she expected.
"How about I get us a couple of menus?" she said with a smile of affection. Her face was barely millimetres from his.
He returned the smile. But words failed him.
Something had definitely, definitely passed between them.
He nodded.
She smiled again and moved off towards the bar.
She glanced over and saw him watching her go, his hand gently rubbing the spot on his forehead where she had kissed him.
They locked eyes and he gazed at her with a look that floored her.
And her heart nearly burst from the wonder in his eyes.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
August 14th 2002
Peyton walked out of the hospital with a yawn. It had been a long day, and her dealings with government employees had done nothing to shorten it. She stretched her neck against her over- the-shoulder bag as she walked towards her car.
It had been a confusing day, having watched the agents measure dicks over taking care of James. Something that angered her. It was as if people had forgotten that he was a living, breathing human who had a future he needed to try and establish. He needed to be focussing on what he was going to do next, not which Government agencies was going to interrogate him.
But no one would listen to the intern. She knew, she had tried.
Night had almost fallen. The shadows had grown long and the sky showed that the sun's shift had nearly ended.
She was walking down a narrow side street, when a large man stepped out of the shadows.
Peyton took a step back, her feet coming to shoulder-width apart, just like she had been taught. Ready to fight or flee. It was an automatic reaction.
"DS Piddle!" she almost cried out. "You scared the shit out of me."
The DS looked at her for a long minute. Appraising her with that stare of his. "Apologies, Doctor." He said nothing else.
Peyton gave him a long look, her nerves starting to get to her. The hairs on the back of her neck began to stand up.
"Can I help you with something?"
The Detective Sergeant cast a glance around himself.
"A message from the Detective Inspector." He said gruffly, holding out a large hand which contained a note.
She gave him a long look and opened the note in her hand.
Doc,
Well, done on the quick thinking at the hospital. Whatever you do, don't give the item to the agents. They will do horrible things to get it. Keep the item. If you want to hand it to the DS or myself, we can organise for its safekeeping. However, if you decide to keep it, do not return it to James until he is free and clear. In the wise words of a recent film – "Keep it secret, keep it safe."
I was simply searching for the truth. This incident has been a highly strange one; made stranger now by the involvement of the other parties. I won't go into details, but this isn't the first time I've seen this sort of behaviour. There's a trend here.
They do not want to help your friend.
They do not want what is best for him. Only what is best for them.
The note giver will provide my phone number. Should you ever need my assistance, please do not hesitate to call.
Please destroy this note. You never know who is watching.
-RT
Peyton looked up at the DS. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
"Tell him I will hold onto it. It is James's, and he should keep it, whatever it is." She said finally, her mind made up.
The DS nodded at her, then handed over another slip of paper with a phone number on it.
He turned to go, but he stopped himself.
"He's a good man, the Detective Inspector. He does this job for all the right reasons; I can assure you of that. He does want to help the lad. But if you want some advice, tell the lad to suggest to the other party that he join the services. That might mollify them. Otherwise, there's a risk he will disappear and never be heard of again."
Peyton just stared at his retreating back.
Disappear and never be heard of again?
Surely not.
She hurriedly produced her car keys from her bag and climbed into the driver seat, locking the car doors behind her.
She was now more confused than ever. Exactly what had she found herself immersed in? What was going on?
She looked around the now dark street. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.
She reached into her bag and searched for the item she stole from James's meagre possessions. A good thing she had, too. The MI5 people had searched his possessions and had become frustrated that 'something was missing'. She wouldn't easily forget the look that had passed over Mrs Jones's face when she realised that she had not found what she was looking for.
They hadn't found it because it was concealed in Peyton's pocket at the time.
It was about 11 inches long. Wooden, and supple. It had a small handle on it.
Peyton had no idea what it was, but something had told her that it was important and that it belonged to James, and only James.
She quickly put it away in her bag.
She had wanted a medical mystery. Now, she had no idea what she had.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
A/N:
Disclaimer: I feel like I should update the disclaimer to say that I own nothing of Harry Potter or its respective trademarks. Nothing at all. I am making no monetary gain from this story.
Just wanted to offer another massive thanks to those of you who are reading, following, favouriting and reviewing. It does actually mean a lot and is really encouraging that people seem to like the story. That or the old principle of 'if you can't say anything nice...' is being applied. But ah well!
I'm also happy to hear that several people have mentioned the OC characters. Hard to build a life for a person without people to keep them company! So it is nice to see them received positively by those who have mentioned them.
This chapter has been released very soon after Chapter Five, because it was mostly done by the time I uploaded the last chapter. Hopefully the next one isn't too far away.
I truly, truly hope you enjoy the story.
Cheers,
ATG