When he came to, every part of his body ached.

Even worse, when he opened his eyes and looked around and saw the long room and the row of cubicles with some curtains pulled, while there were some cubicles where the curtains weren't drawn back; the light was dim, so he couldn't see more, but he saw silhouettes which indicated there were other people. There was a steady beep-beep-beep sound from all of the cubicles, that drowned out the silence in the darkness.

As he woke up and looked around, he realised how blurred his vision was, but he quickly realised it was not down to the darkness; his vision was blurred.

He rubbed his face, and then he suddenly realised something awful. He…. didn't know who he was.

Sitting up quickly, gasping at the cramp, he ran his hands over his face and through his thick hair, trying to stretch his mind back to see if there was anything he could remember, anything he could recall; places, names, faces….

That didn't mean he had lost everything; he still remembered how to read and write, how to speak, how to walk, and how to do ordinary things like flick on a light switch and turn on a tap…. He simply did not remember who he was.

He knew he was in a hospital ward, with people here, but it was pitch dark and there was nobody nearby awake for him to speak to, and he didn't want to disturb anyone.

'Not the best thing to wake up to,' he thought grimly to himself as he rubbed his hands over his face again, desperately hoping something about feeling himself would somehow restore part of his memory and give him a clue to who he was.

"Who am I?" He whispered to himself. "Who am I?"

Xxxxx

When morning came, he woke up again and he found himself looking up and seeing the blurred figure standing over him. "Hello," he said quietly, making the figure jump, "sorry. I…can't see you."

The figure standing over him was still for a second - he wished who knew who it was; the blurriness of his vision made it difficult to tell the gender never mind anything else - before they spoke, "You're British?"

It was a woman.

He figured that it was a nurse, but he was okay with being wrong.

"Sorry?"

"Your accent. It's British," the woman said and for the first time he realised that her accent was different; it was American, "You can't see me?" She added, remembering what he'd said before as he pondered on how weird it was that small things in his memory had come back, yet he remembered so little about himself.

"Sadly, no."

"I'm sorry," she said, and he believed her. "Oh wait! I think you were found with glasses. I'll just chase them up."

"Thank you," he smiled, thankful the woman seemed friendly enough.

She left him for a few minutes but when she came back, he felt something being slid on his face and suddenly his world came back into focus. The woman standing over him was wearing a hospital uniform, she had close-cropped dark blonde hair and tanned skin and had green eyes. She smiled at him warmly.

"Hi," she said. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better now I can see," he replied, glancing down at his hands, frowning when he saw a crescent-shaped scar on his right hand crisscrossed with several other scars. The crescent-shaped scar on his hand looked deep; he tried desperately to remember how he got them, but he came up with a blank.

The nurse noticed his scrutiny over the scars, but she also noticed his surprise and shock and even revulsion. "Your body is covered with those scars," she commented. "You looked like you'd gotten into a fight or something."

"A fight?" He looked up, wondering if that was it.

"Y-you don't know?" The nurse was confused. "How can't you know how you got those scars?"

"I….I don't remember. Where am I anyway?" He looked around.

The nurse blinked in surprise at the question, now becoming even more worried about his state of mind. "Gracie Square Hospital," she said, and he saw her looking at him interestedly.

It took him a moment to realise she was expecting him to recognise the hospital name. "Sorry, where's that?"

"Manhattan, New York City," the nurse said.

"New York? As in America? Do I live here?" He asked her.

"I….wouldn't know. Tell me something," she went on, looking at him with increasing worry and fear. "What do you remember?"

"I don't remember anything. I was hoping you could give me clues about who I was, that's why I didn't say anything. Surely I had something on me, anything that could tell me who I am," he said.

"We were hoping that you could tell us that, kiddo," the nurse was now even more worried, "you were found unconscious in central park. You looked like you'd gone 30 rounds with some of the worst boxers and wrestlers on the planet before being whipped to death. You're severely malnourished and dehydrated and we've got you hooked up to different drips. You don't remember anything?"

"No, I don't," he replied, shaken as he conjured an image of himself being found in a park, injured and barely holding onto consciousness, that was if he wasn't already unconscious. "Was I found with anything that could give clues about who I am, or what happened?"

"No," the nurse replied. "Aside from your glasses, you didn't have anything on you that gave clues."

"What about my clothes?" He asked, glancing at her uniform. "Were there any clues there?"

"No, not really; your clothes are just as tatty as look like they've been through hell. The shirt you were wearing was hanging in rags and covered in your blood, and there was virtually nothing of it left; because of that, it was destroyed. Sorry," she added sheepishly.

While he was disappointed he didn't have that at least, he tried to see things from the hospital's point of view; if the shirt he'd been wearing was so badly damaged that it was useless for clues to who he was and what happened, then maybe it was better off gone. Still, it was a shame.

"It's okay," he whispered, masking his dismay.

"Okay," the nurse said sceptically, clearly not believing him but deciding to let it rest. "I'm going to get a doctor to take a look at you. I'll be back."

"Sure," he nodded, knowing she would be telling the doctor he remembered nothing but that was her job, and besides it might help in the long term. "It's worse than I thought," he whispered when she was out of earshot.

Xxxxx

"Doctor Holloway?"

Jackie Holloway turned and smiled at Grace. "Hello, Grace."

"The kid who was found in the park, the one who looked like hell, he's woken up," Grace reported as she fell into step next to the doctor.

"He has? That's fantastic," Jackie frowned, seeing the look on the nurse's face. "That's fantastic, isn't it?"

"He doesn't remember who he is," Grace said, "he doesn't remember where he came from, why he was in the park, or even why he was so badly injured. He asked me where he was. The only thing I know about him is he's British."

"A Brit?" Jackie wondered if the boy had been kidnapped while on holiday or something, and she made a mental note to get the NYPD to get some checks down in every state, to determine if any British family had been missing anyone. Some crimes wouldn't be reported, but they had to check.

Grace frowned a little at the description, but she nodded, "He did wonder if he liked America, but I didn't have any answers for him. He was curious about the shirt he was wearing."

"You told him about the state his clothes were in?"

"I did. I also told him what happened to them."

Jackie frowned for a moment but she shook her head, "I guess there's no harm in that. So he doesn't remember anything?"

"No, he looked at the large scar on his hand and wrist, the crescent-shaped one, and he didn't remember how he got them. I got a good look at his face; he was stunned by them. Are you going to contact the NYPD and let them know there might be a British family who is looking for their son?" Grace asked.

"No, I want to speak to him first, come on," Jackie said, and together the two women headed to the ward. They found the mystery boy sitting up in bed, looking at his hands with such scrutiny that it bordered on scary. He looked up and smiled at Grace warmly; both women were stunned by how devilish the smile was.

"Hello again," he said, his eyes drifting towards Jackie.

"Hi," Grace smiled back. While she was happily married, Grace could see the boy, despite being scarred, was handsome.

"Hi," Jackie said. "My name's Jackie Holloway. I'm a doctor. How are you feeling today?"

"Erm, I was aching all over when I woke up last night, just briefly. When I woke up earlier I still ached."

"You're a very brave young man, considering what you went through," Jackie said, testing his responses.

"I have no idea what I went through. My mind's a complete blank."

Jackie sighed, it was as Grace said. "I don't know how to tell this to you, but do you mind if I'm blunt?"

"Please do."

"It looks like someone assaulted you. There are bruises and cuts to every part of your body, like someone stabbed and cut you and punched you, and there are burns on your back."

The boy stared at her in horror. "Burns?" He hissed in disbelief.

"Yeah, we're giving you treatment for them," Jackie said uneasily, "when you were found, you'd lost a lot of fluids, especially blood. We've given you a blood transfusion, so you'll recover soon. When you spoke to Grace here, you asked if you lived in America, now think; do you remember anything about your parents, relatives?"

"My parents are dead."

The boy gasped and clapped his hands to his mouth while the doctor and nurse stood there in shock. "I…I didn't expect that. I….I remember….a woman's voice in the background, but she sounds so far away, I can't hear what she's saying. A flash of green light, and then nothing. W-why do I remember that and nothing else?" He demanded.

"I don't know," Grace stared at him in sympathy.

Jackie wondered if it was still worth calling the police, but she decided to do it anyway. The boy might have remembered a green flash of light and a woman speaking, but the memory was so blurred he could be wrong. "Maybe your mind remembers some things," she suggested.

"Perhaps….," the boy sighed and ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stick up madly. "Listen, erm, could one of you get me a pen and a blank notebook to write in as a kind of diary? It might help me remember some details. And, I don't suppose one of you has a mirror, do you? It might help me remember some things."

"Sure," Grace reached into her pocket and pulled out a small mirror and handed it over to the boy, who took it.

"Thank you," the boy replied and stared at his face.

He was pale-skinned, which only made the scars and cuts all over his face stand out more starkly than before. He noticed he had a very soft face with a pointed chin and a small nose. There was a scar over his right eye as someone had slashed him, and after what he'd heard about himself so far, that was not hard to believe. He snorted a little at the messy black hair.

But what caught his eye was the scar on his forehead.

It was older than the other scars on his face, it was faded.

It was in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Author's Note - I was inspired to write this version of Harry Potter by reading an old fanfic, Find a Way, by Quillian; Harry was able to send Cedric away from Voldemort and Cedric survived, but after Harry was taken prisoner by Voldemort and eventually killed the Dark Lord he lost his memory. The fanfic has not been finished, but the idea is there and is sound.