Book 1: In Search of Lost Memories
Chapter 2: A Broken Mind
Landes Communal Hall, Landes, France, July 5th, 1936
The Tessier family, together with Harry and Maurice, walked to the city hall. To distract himself from his rising anxiety, Harry focused on Amèlie as she hummed a happy tune and walked in a swaying pattern that made her look like one misstep from falling face-first to the ground. Nicholas was perched on her shoulder, basking in the attention given to the advancing group, attributing it to his majesty, not Harry.
As they approached the hall, signs of her growing nerves became apparent. By the time the hall finally came into view, Amèlie began to pale and tremble, as though she was being haunted by ghosts only she could see. She took her mother's hand more firmly, but Monique was still too distracted from her arguments with her husband to notice. Nicholas sang to cheer her up, but she kept her eyes downcast.
Their arrival was met with a particularly telling bout of silence, as dozens of witches and wizards turned their heads to look at them.
"Well?" Monique demanded briskly, breaking the still atmosphere and sending three men into action.
It was easy to identify the Ministry workers. They were sharply dressed, with matching dark blue cloaks, though the uniforms underneath varied. Two started a hushed conversation with a local while the third, clearly their senior, with greying hair and a stern face, motioned for Harry to approach. He started to comply when Monique stopped him by putting her hand on his shoulder.
"Do you care to explain why there's a crowd here?" She asked in open accusation, looking at the people around the hall with disdain. "I did not know we had a circus in town."
"We do have a few clowns," Maurice grumbled, looking at Symphorien as he walked towards the two remaining Ministry workers and the local with whom they were still talking.
"I did not know that you were familiar with Ministry personnel, André," he commented as he neared, breaking up their conversation.
"I studied with Alphonse at Beauxbatons," André smiled with pearly white teeth and a good-natured disposition, slapping the man in the back. "He was my veteran for a few years when I was there. And Vincent here," he pointed to the last of the three visitors, "is someone Alphonse introduced me to after we graduated."
"You seem fairly close," the old man speculated.
"We have a lot in common, Symphorien," the smile continued on his face, though it seemed more forced.
"I'm sure you do," Symphorien said indulgently, as though he was talking with someone of Amèlie's age. "Which of you will rid us of this accursed boy?"
"Calm down and let the men do their job," André urged in a conciliatory tone that did not fit well with his appearance.
"I will do so once I'm convinced you're not plotting one of your schemes."
"Scheming?" He responded with an arched eyebrow, looking around in a nonplussed fashion. "What could there be to scheme about a boy missing his family?"
"About that point, there is sparsely any intrigue to be had," Symphorien agreed. "But there is always a scheme at hand when it comes to Gellert Grindelwald."
"I think this subject is over," the older Ministry worker intervened. "There are children here—"
"Including one who wore a necklace with his mark."
"I said this subject is over, Mr. Marceau," the man warned more firmly.
"The subject will be over when the child is away from his place," Symphorien responded with a knowing, booming voice. "That much was made clear by the storm."
"I am here, you know," Harry frowned, annoyed by their talking about him as though he was invisible.
"I am keenly aware," the man answered in a grave voice.
"You are not in charge of the decision of what happens to this child," the Ministry worker insisted.
"I am also keenly aware of that," he replied in the same tone. "Otherwise, he wouldn't be here."
"You've made your opinions clear, Symphorien," Monique said, aggravated. "Now, be quiet. And you," she pointed to the older of the Ministry trio, "answer my question."
"They were already here when we arrived."
"So order them away," she demanded.
"We have a right to be here!" Someone cried out from the crowd.
"Have you no shame?" Monique barked back, her fingers digging into Harry's shoulder, fixing him into place and making him hiss from the pressure. "This has nothing to do with you. Go home."
"This has everything to do with us!"
"He brought the storm!"
"Send him away!"
"The people are speaking," Symphorien declared. "Will you disregard their call?"
"Were you confused when I said you are not in charge of the decision of what happens to this child?"
"You were perfectly clear."
"Then be quiet, or I will make you so," the Ministry worker said, unwilling to have his authority ignored further. He then turned to the rest of the hall and continued in the same unyielding tone. "This goes for all of you. Be quiet, or leave."
"They should leave either way," Monique said, eyeing them angrily.
"Are you the Healer who examined Mr. Potter?"
"Me and Maurice Varon," she volunteered, the latter hesitantly stepping forward to be acknowledged.
"I would like a word after the examination," he said before turning to Harry. "My name is Jean-Baptiste Harduin. I was told that you do not have many memories of your past. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you remember what an Auror is?"
"No, sir."
"I'm a magical law enforcement agent. I work to ensure that the wizards in France are safe from threats within and outside our national borders. I'm here because of the necklace bearing the mark of one Mr. Gellert Grindelwald. Do you know who he is?"
"No, sir."
André, Vincent, and Alphonse all glanced at one another. Symphorien scoffed skeptically, as did Robert and many others in the room. Their reactions alarmed the Auror, who interrupted his upcoming response to glare at them.
"We'll move to a private location to continue this conversation, young man. Could you follow me?" Jean-Baptiste said and then looked at André. "Could you point me to a room, as you seem to know my colleagues?"
"I prefer it to be in public, sir," Harry interjected.
"Oh? How so?"
"Because no one will believe I'm innocent otherwise," Harry spoke. He noticed Monique eyeing him strangely, as did Maurice.
"How old are you again?" Jean-Baptiste asked, going through some notes in a notebook he carried with him.
"I don't know." Some people in the hall looked at one another in confusion and pity at the extent of his amnesia, although disbelief and scorn were also present.
"We estimate him to be between ten and eleven," Maurice claimed. The Auror nodded.
"Regardless of your request, Mr. Potter, I cannot continue this interrogation in public. It would go against the Auror Office protocols." Monique guided them to a room nearby and closed the door. "You're a quick one for your age," Jean-Baptiste complimented Harry, who didn't know what to do with that comment other than to feel slightly bashful. "Before we continue, let me introduce you to the other two Ministry workers here."
The duo turned to face Harry with open, friendly expressions.
"Hello, Mr. Potter. I am Alphonse Rapine and I work with Jean-Baptiste in the Auror Office. I'm his assistant, so to speak," a tall and well-built man introduced himself with a firm nod and a small smile.
"And I am Vincent Aubin," he was shorter than his counterpart and had a calming face that matched well with his clear hazel eyes. "I am in a different hierarchy of the Ministry, which is working with Jean-Baptiste to figure out anything we can glean from that necklace. Have the Healers told you what I do?"
"Something about my head?"
"More accurately, something about your mind," he corrected Harry gently. "Occasionally, people who were in accidents or were harmed somehow suffer from mental damage as a consequence. People like me help to sort out their issues by going inside their minds and trying to mend together any fissures, in a way."
"Are there fissures in my mind?" Harry spat out immediately, discomfited by the notion. Vincent chortled, which did little to reassure him.
"It's just an expression. I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that. Which is why there are so few of us."
"I-it seems like a very specific role, sir," he stammered nervously.
"The benefit of being a specialist, Mr. Potter," Vincent smiled before Jean-Baptiste intervened.
"Before he does his examination, I have a few questions. What is your full name?"
"I'm not sure," Harry said nervously. Though he was being truthful, being under the man's eye made the admission feel shameful. "I know my last name is Potter, but I don't remember if I have a middle name."
"Understood," the man nodded stoically. Vincent and Alphonse showed faces showing pity and sorrow, respectively. Harry did not know which one made him feel worse. "Do you recall your place of birth?"
"I think I'm English," he hesitantly put forward. "I-I have some vague memories about it."
"We already know you are not aware of your birthdate," Jean-Baptiste mumbled to himself.
"I know it's July," Harry frowned. "I remember it being warm."
"Anything else you might remember? Having an exact date might help us track down any relatives." The cautious sidestepping of the term 'parents' made Harry realize the man already knew him to be an orphan.
"No," he spoke after rubbing his temples to entice another wisp of remembrance into the surface and failing.
"Very well. Next question."
The following minutes weren't as unnerving as Harry anticipated, but they were maddeningly frustrating. The Auror asked him a series of questions he did not have the answer to, and with each uncertain response, his aggravation grew. By the end, Harry was torn between screaming that he was lost and simply running away and never looking back.
"Now, I'll give you some privacy for Vincent to do his probing," Jean-Baptiste said before opening the door and inviting in a cacophony of whispers as the villagers eyed him fearfully. "I'll deal with this lot and talk with the two Healers."
"I am deeply sorry about that, Harry," Vincent said sincerely. "You don't deserve all this animosity. André told us the situation here was volatile, but I didn't suspect it was to this extent."
"It's fine," he tried to reassure them but lacked the conviction to comfort even himself. "It's not your fault."
"Don't worry, Harry," Alphonse said, giving him an awkward tap on the back. "It'll be fine."
He was guided into a chair, and while Alphonse sat across from him, Vincent sat by his side and slowly retrieved his wand.
"I'm going to cast the spell now," he said in a calming voice. "I know that having a wand pointed at your head can be a bit disconcerting, but try to be as relaxed as possible. The calmer you are, the easier this will be for me, and the faster we can help you recover."
Harry nodded in a tense jerk. The prospect of having someone sauntering through his head still unnerved him, and his body kept warning him about incoming migraines for reasons he didn't understand.
"If he tries something, I'll disarm him for you," Alphonse winked at the boy, who offered a wobbly but appreciative grin in response.
"Now, keep your gaze fixed on me," Vincent instructed. Harry did his best to count the individual black spots in the man's eyes, trying to ignore the wand`s tip resting on the bridge of his nose, threatening to make him cockeyed. "Legilimens."
Amorphous Place at the End of the World, Harry, Potter
A part of his mind was still alert, protesting that something else was in here too. Something that didn't belong, something unwelcome.
But the darkness was so comforting.
Why the rush? Why the concern when you can float?
Floaty float floating; weightless. No mass, no fears, nothing.
How can there be forgetfulness when there is nothing to remember? Just a cozy void, dark and pleasant. No memories of snarling faces twisted by hatred, no recollections of putrid malevolence, no reminder of the painful pang of hypocrisy. Just floating endlessly.
Floaty float floating; weightless. No mass, no fears, but… something?
What is that? No, seriously, what is that? Is that a thought? A concern?
Harry, Harry, Harry, what are you doing? You don't need those around here! Haven't they told you, Harry? This is a no-concern zone. We don't get concerned here. Concerns weigh you down. You don't want to be weighed down, do you? Why would you want that when you could float in this cozy void, custom-made for you?
Of course not, right, Harry? Floating is much better. Everyone knows that. Who wouldn't? Staying here, far from concerns, far from fears, far from pains, is a good decision. A great one, even. Just fantastic decision-making there!
The best part of it all is that here you can be whatever you want! Outside, you could only be yourself, Harry Potter, but who would want that? Who would want to be so narrowly defined? Nothingness is where it's at! You can be whatever you like here, in this endless space.
Isn't the void interesting? Isn't floating interesting? I bet that's your favorite part, isn't it?
Now Harry, again with this? We've been through this before. You don't need to worry here. And asking about some light, of all things? This is the void. There are no lights here, Harry. Just void.
Why would you want light? Don't you remember that green ray, the one that scared you when you thought about it, back when you had your memories? The one that took everything from you? Why would you want to go out there, only to see more people get hit with green rays? Why would you want to see that again?
Harry, why are you remembering those green eyes, silly? They were just an image in a mirror, don't you remember? That green ray hit those eyes, and now they don't open anymore.
Oh, so now you want sound too, is that it? Look at Harry Potter over here, wanting things when he could have the void. You know that hoarse, barking laugh you liked so much? Did you know that was the last sound those lips made? If you don't count the horrified gasp that came just before they never spoke again, but who's counting, right, Harry?
I can tell you who is not counting, though. You! Because this is void, and counting is for chumps. And you are not a chump.
Harry, I'm starting to think you might be a chump. Why are you remembering those crushing hugs, when they used to bruise your ribs? Why do you want to feel things? Things are terrible, Harry.
Do you remember hunger? That's a thing. You had a lot of that in your past. Do you know what else is a thing? Pain. And cupboards. And loneliness. And dreams of dead snowy owls. And big snakes that kill people. And smaller snakes that kill people. And evil professors. And evil wizards. And evil bureaucrats. And evil politicians. And evil. Those are all things. Why would you want to feel?
Fine. I'll prove it to you since you're so insistent. Do you see that? That's a book with all your memories. Go ahead, that's what you want so much, isn't it? To remember? To remember things? Those are all the things you remember.
I'm waiting.
What do you mean, there's nothing here? There are doodles, and phrases marked with colorful ink, there's that day when it snowed and you threw snowballs into someone's back. What more do you want? This is a void, not a charity, Harry.
What do you mean, you want to go back? No, you don't. Why would anyone want to do that? To the smells, the suffering, the agony, the holding back tears because you want to remember things you don't? Look at the book, Harry. Do you see how much of it is blurred? It's all gone, Harry. G.O.N.E.
You don't want that, Harry. Why would you want that? Do you want a more vivid experience of how much you don't remember? That is all you'll be getting if you go back. There'll be no mothers, no fathers, no friends, no mentors, no hope, nothing.
Harry? Where are you going?
Harry?
HARRY!
Landes Communal Hall, Landes, France, July 5th, 1936
"Harry!" Alphonse yelled.
Harry gasped with his entire body, like a man crawling out of the ocean after nearly drowning. He fell to the ground as his startling return to consciousness sent him flying backward in a jolt.
Vincent seemed tormented by what had happened, shocked and stiff, moving only to breathe and blink.
"Harry, are you okay?" Alphonse crouched down, discreetly checking his body for injuries, still trying to understand what had happened. A movement caught his eye, and he asked with great concern. "Harry?"
His shoulders were shaking erratically, almost in convulsion, making Harry wobble from side to side. Alphonse was about to run outside to get help from the Healers when a faint noise coming from the boy stopped him.
Laughter. Not chuckling or giggling, but full-blown laughter. A shiver traveled down Alphonse's spine at the sound. It was quiet but also inhuman, unnatural, closer to the dying wails of a crazed hyena than a human expression of delight. When the boy's body continued to be wrecked by that laughing fit, Alphonse was not surprised to see unfocused eyes staring a thousand yards away when his face finally appeared through the mop of unruly frazzled black hair.
"Get Jean here. And the Healers," Vincent said in a daze.
"Are you sure that's wise?" Alphonse asked back, looking warily at Harry, who continued to spasm in that chilling laughter.
"Yes."
When the door opened, Maurice and Monique instantly went to stabilize Harry, whose condition seemed to worsen with each passing second. His head was bobbing side to side now, and one stroke of bad luck would have it bang at a nearby wall and knock him unconscious again.
"What happened?" Maurice asked at the same time as Monique accused. "What did you do?!"
Vincent didn't answer, only passing a weary hand over his face.
"Did you bring any potions?" Maurice asked. Before Monique could start rummaging in her pockets to see what she had brought, Vincent spoke in a tired voice.
"Don't. It won't work."
"What do you mean it won't work?" Monique demanded harshly before turning to the boy in her arms and asking in a softer voice. "Harry, what happened?"
"Don't!" Vincent advised, but it was too late.
For an instant, Harry stopped and looked at the woman addressing him. For that short, fleeting moment, there was hope in the room. But then Harry's laughter restarted stronger than ever, this time in a high-pitched whine which bounced off the walls and returned even sharper to their ears. Soon enough, he found it difficult to breathe, managing only short bursting gasps between being rocked by peals of insane guffawing.
"I… I don't...I don't remember," he said, torturously heaving each word. Another burst of crazed laughter as Maurice struggled to keep him upright. "Don't y-don't you get it? Why aren't y-you la-laughing? I-I don't re-remember."
After uttering those words, his laughs shifted into sniffling, then weeping, sobbing, and finally wailing, this terrible, desperate, broken sound that made even the ever-sturdy Jean-Baptiste look away for a moment. Harry looked minuscule, thrown into the ground like a ragdoll, unmoving except for the messy hiccuping that came from crying that hard.
With everyone else in the room immobilized by shock at the boy's anguish, Alphonse moved first. A red beam exploded from his wand and hit Harry in the chest, making him crumble to the floor like a stringless puppet.
"Are you insane?!" Monique yelled at the top of her lungs, eyes wide with rage and a face that seemed about to explode. Despite facing an Auror, so great was her fury that the man took a half-step back in reaction before reimposing a ready posture. Before the situation boiled over, Maurice intervened, putting his wand to his throat.
"MONIQUE!" He bellowed, at a volume loud enough to startle the woman away from her indomitable wrath, at the cost of his ringing eardrums. After opening and closing his mouth like a fish to regain his hearing, something that the Ministry workers furtively copied, he continued. "It's fine. He didn't do anything wrong."
"He stunned Harry! How is that not w—"
"Do you remember what I told you about wartime medical care?" Maurice interrupted with a steely voice.
Instead of cynicism or outrage, Monique could only muster a horrified whisper. "That bad?" The unspoken answer came fluently to her through her partner's gaze. She turned to Vincent, who still didn't seem like his previous self, and repeated the question with grave concern, carrying no anger whatsoever. "What happened?"
"His mind is just…" he trailed off, uncertain of the correct terminology. After failing to find it in his formal education, he settled for an approximation, "it's just broken."
"What?"
"He shouldn't be capable of doing anything complex. It's a miracle that he was speaking coherently, to begin with."
"What did you see?" Jean-Baptiste asked slowly as the room absorbed the diagnosis.
"I find it difficult to explain," Vincent admitted. "I don't think I can, frankly."
"Let me rephrase it," he replied with a contrite expression. "Did you manage to see anything regarding Grindelwald in there?"
"If the boy is connected to Grindelwald in any way whatsoever, which I doubt, he certainly doesn't remember it."
Monique sighed. "What do we do now?"
The Ministry workers glanced at one another before Vincent spoke out. "Jean-Baptiste, can you stay here with him? I need a cigarette. I can't think straight."
"I can," he nodded before furrowing his brow. "Whatever you saw, was it that bad?"
Vincent glanced at Harry and grimaced uncomfortably. Instead of answering the question, he muttered. "Cigarette. I need a cigarette," and then left with Alphonse. The Healers remained in place to discuss if anything could be done for Harry, with Jean-Baptiste guarding the room.
Outside the hall, they met with André Fraise, who was already smoking. As they approached, he offered one of his to each of them.
"You look shaken up," he told them. Vincent glimpsed at him and then stared at the ground, accepting the cigarette with a thankful murmur.
"Muggle?" Alphonse asked after lighting it and taking a long drag.
"They make them better."
Alphonse disagreed wordlessly but kept smoking. They stayed in pensive silence for a few moments, André looking at the Ministry pair with increasing impatience.
"So?" He eventually inquired.
"The boy's mind is gone. No way of knowing if he or someone in his life is involved with Grindelwald, or how he got that necklace in the first place." He took a final puff of the cigarette before banishing it away. "Poor kid."
"Don't get sentimental now," Alphonse warned him.
"He's just a child," Vincent said, distressed. "No one deserves that."
"He's carrying a necklace," he answered in a detached voice. "We still need to verify its origin."
"What do we do now?" Fraise asked. The two Ministry workers looked at one another.
"We need to escalate this," Vincent lamented, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling, the lingering aftertaste of tobacco unpleasant in his mouth.
Alphonse let out an irritated grumble. "Grindelwald does like his puzzles, and this is as puzzling as it gets."
"Isn't that a bit overboard, going directly to him?" André asked cautiously.
"I see no other option," Vincent said with an open-palmed shrug, though he looked displeased by the prospect. "It's a necklace. You know how rare those are."
André conceded the point, but only grudgingly. "He needs to stay here, then. If he goes to Paris, he can get lost in the system or quietly be shipped off to England. If that happens, we'll never find him again."
"Are you sure you can manage to keep the boy here? Isn't that old man going to make a fuss?" Alphonse asked before fixing him with an irritated glare. "You told us you had things under control around Landes."
"I can handle Symphorien," he brushed off the concern, the sentiment fueled more by pride than conviction. "The problem is Jean."
They turned to Alphonse, who took a deep breath and went through the options in his head. After a long while, during which Vincent began smoking another cigarette, he finally spoke. "The necklace is easy. I'll just create a magically inert copy and archive that one instead when he isn't looking. Convincing him to keep the boy here will be tougher," he sent an accusatory look towards Fraise. "Rightfully, he would need to go to Paris by tomorrow at the latest."
"Is there something we can use against him?" André asked.
"He feels bad for the kid," Alphonse answered. "Fears for his safety. We could use that."
A few minutes later, they returned to the room with a camera in hand. A photograph was snapped with a great blinding flash, forcing everyone present to blink to get spots away from their eyes.
"There is a Potter family in England. We're going to quietly send this to them to see if anyone there recognizes him. If anyone does and we verify them, we'll try to connect them as soon as possible," Alphonse explained as he examined what the large, unwieldy contraption spat out to him. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and pocketed the picture. "For now, it would be better if he stayed here in Landes."
"He's not going to Paris?" Maurice asked nervously, ignoring the indignant scowl that he received from Monique.
"If we do this via the official channels, it's going to get a lot of undesired publicity," he explained with an apologetic smile. "And considering the association with Grindelwald, we don't want to call attention to Harry if we can help it. It's for his safety."
Monique nodded, accepting the point. Maurice seemed concerned but suggested weakly. "I guess he can stay at the clinic?"
"Don't be absurd; Harry would do well to stay with us," Monique decided. "We have a guest room for a reason. Why not use it when a guest arrives?"
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Maurice asked.
"I know you're worried about Robert," she spoke, pursing her lips in disapproval, "but don't be. I'll have a very long conversation with him about his behavior."
"If you say so," he shrugged, relieved about not being held responsible for Harry's stay. "I'll help you carry him."
Tessier Family Home, Landes, France, July 6th, 1936
Harry woke up in a comfortable and homely room, with a warm bed and the pleasant sound of birds chirping coming through an ajar window. He looked around to figure out where he was but found no identifying features, just as the previous day. There were no photographs, no mementos, and no decorations. It felt empty, yet another reminder that he was not supposed to be there.
A leather bag with all his worldly possessions was at the foot of the bed. Gone was the necklace carrying Grindelwald's symbol.
Some part of him was convinced that the door to his room would be locked, that he was a prisoner somewhere. He approached the doorknob warily. Carefully twisting the door open, he spied the other side through a slight crack.
"Harry?" Monique called from down the corridor, from a place he couldn't see. "Is that you?"
"Y—" his voice cracked, and he cleared his painfully dry throat. "Yes!"
"Why then, come here. What are you doing, just standing there? Come eat breakfast."
Harry opened the door fully and made his way into the living room, where Monique was sitting alone, putting jars of jam and honey on a table alongside a variety of seeded loaves of bread, a stick of butter, a small wheel of cheese, and pots of coffee and milk. The smell made him realize just how long he had gone without eating, and he closed the distance to the table in large steps.
"If we're eating breakfast," he began hesitantly as he sat down. "Is it the next day already?"
Monique froze for a moment before she started looking for more preserves to make available. They seemed homemade, with flavors Harry had never seen before written on little labels on their glass containers. He wondered if they ate some of what they planted in the garden outside.
"Yes, today is the 6th."
Again his curiosity reasserted itself, much to the complaint of his rumbling stomach, and he asked another question. "It didn't go well, then?" He asked hesitantly. "I… don't remember a lot of it."
"You had a bad reaction to the…" she trailed off, uncomfortable with the first words that came to her and deciding to find a more suitable alternative, "mental inspection. I can tell you more about it after you eat."
He nodded and began his meal, but worry made each bite heavy and unpleasant, regardless of how tantalizing the food smelled. Swallowing was a burden as well, his sensitive throat making him feel like he was grinding sandpaper down his gullet. Only the warm café au lait soothed it, with Harry hiding the bitter taste of black coffee by mixing it with an amount of sugar that made Monique twitch.
"Where's Amèlie?" He asked between ginger nibbles of soft cheese.
"She's sleeping. I wanted to talk with you alone for a moment," she said. The tone made him abort any remaining impulse to eat, his stomach weighing heavily with concern and fear. "I'll be honest with you, Harry. The situation regarding your mind is not ideal."
"I feel like it's worse than that," he said morosely. By the sadness on her face, he figured he was correct.
"I'll begin by saying that it isn't hopeless. Maurice, Vincent, and I designed some exercises to stimulate your mind. We're all in agreement that it will improve the likelihood of you getting back some normalcy into your life," Monique spoke slowly. She was not used to measuring her words to such an extent and the attempt frustrated her. "However, the problem goes deeper than we initially estimated. There isn't anything Vincent can do to help you directly. Now, we must rely on the exercises and monitor your progress."
She gave him a few seconds to process her words. The last phrases echoed endlessly in his mind, like a train going around a mountain in loops, each compartment neatly tucked behind another. The implications were too much to absorb, leaving him fixated on the words themselves.
"You said the exercises were supposed to stimulate my mind, not my memories," he noticed. "Is something wrong with my mind too?"
She nodded softly, and he covered his face with his hands, elbows on the table. He didn't have the energy for panic anymore, only sad resignation. Harry rubbed his eyes, hopeful that he would leave this nightmare. Still, he opened them again to the sight of half-eaten cheese and breadcrumbs on his dish.
"I'll never get my memories back, will I?" He muttered, not taking his eyes away from his abandoned breakfast. What once looked so colorful now looked dull and uninviting.
"That may happen," Monique admitted. "But as I said when you first woke up, hope is free."
"No, it isn't," he snapped, surprising her. The anger flushed away as quickly as it surged, and he sagged back into his chair with irrepressible exhaustion. "It hurts."
"More improbable things have happened, Harry," she said, with light but unmistakable impatience shining through her tone. He felt the stirrings of another outburst as indignation took form within him before dying almost instantly, set to drown in the endless and impenetrable sea of his amnesia alongside everything else. "Why don't you try the mental exercises if you're finished with breakfast? Amélie will gladly help you, I'm sure."
The woman left to wake her daughter up, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Birds were still chirping their morning greetings outside. The summer sun was pleasantly radiating his skin, lighting his arms and face in a soft, warm glow. He idly wondered if any nearby peaks offered a nice view.
Amèlie appeared soon after, looking nothing like the ball of energy from the previous day. With bleary eyes and a half-asleep gait, she sat down in the chair nearest Harry, offered him a tired smile, and took a slice of bread with butter that Monique had prepared for her.
Not many things could have knocked Harry out of his stupor, but the sight of an eight-year-old girl merrily downing unsweetened coffee like it was orange juice was one of them.
"We start them young here in France," Monique declared with strange pride. Despite thinking the act too precocious, Harry limited himself to an accepting nod. "A few years from now, and we'll be giving her a sip of wine after dinner too."
"Mommy, are you going to stay here the whole day?" Amèlie asked after finishing her breakfast in silence, with none of her previous tiredness still present.
"I am," she answered with a small smile that grew when her daughter began celebrating and making plans for their afternoon. Confused, Harry asked.
"Don't you have to go to the clinic?"
"Amèlie normally stays with a family friend called Angèlique Froment when it's a workday, but when she can't take care of her, she usually stays with me here or at the clinic," she explained, caressing her daughter's hair absent-mindedly. "As you're recovering here, I'm staying home."
Harry remembered that name coming up in conversation before. "I can stay at the clinic, and Amèlie can go with Angèlique if it's better for you," he suggested, not wanting to be troublesome.
"No! You promised!" Amèlie cried out. Her mother shushed her gently, confirmed that she would stay, then looked at Harry and shook her head sadly.
"Angèlique takes the 6th of every month for herself," she said, not volunteering any further information.
The exercises Monique and Maurice had in mind were substantially less intensive than he expected: a sequence of puzzles of middling difficulty. Harry couldn't shake off the suspicion that they had proposed the effort more to feel like they were doing something than out of a belief it would be effective.
To his surprise, Amèlie seemed more than happy sitting down and helping him for the next few hours, though she kept interrupting their progress to enter into bursts of dispersed conversation.
"We should have a crup," Amèlie decided as they shifted between puzzles.
"You know how your father knows about pets, dear," her mother said in a robotic tone that implied that particular request was made often.
"I also know how daddy feels about Harry," she countered. Monique glared at her, she smiled back innocently, and Harry tried his best not to crack a grin.
Eventually, Amèlie got bored and ran out to the garden. Conflicted between standing guard over Harry and watching over her daughter, Monique stood there uncertain for a moment before he sent her a wavering smile and told her to go. She looked apologetically at him, nodded, and walked briskly outside, immediately telling her daughter to stop poking at a particular plant.
Harry used the opportunity to return to his room for some privacy. He felt compelled to sleep his way to recovery but decided he ought to check the few belongings that had been dragged with him to Landes.
"This is all I have," he muttered, clutching the leather satchel. Ignoring the sting of desperation surging inside him, he opened it.
Very little was there. Only his wand, a change of clothes, and a cloak. The last item was strange, shimmering silver with a gauche starry pattern that gave it the trappings of both opulence and tackiness.
However, when he brushed it with his fingers, the cloak felt alive, inviting, as cozy as a fireplace on a cold winter's night. The touch knocked a memory loose, and he breathed in sharply, overwhelmed by emotion.
"This was my father's," he whispered. Harry dropped the satchel unceremoniously, holding only the cloak. He draped it over his shoulders, relishing in the familiarity it brought him. Eager for the feeling of being home, regardless of how tangentially it came, he covered his face in it, embracing the strange waterfall-like feel the fabric provided on his skin.
Suddenly the door opened, and he froze in surprise. "Harry?" Monique called for him. She scanned his room but somehow missed the boy standing right there, in front of her. The fallen satchel caught her attention, and she murmured in relief, "at least he didn't run away."
Then she left, leaving him shocked. Putting the cloak only over his arms, he watched perplexed as they faded from view. Before he could react, he heard Monique calling out to him again, threw the cloak on the bed, and decided to explore it further during the day.
"Sorry!" He cried out, exiting the room. "Can you tell me where the bathroom is?"