There was a nothingness, a blankness. At first, it was comfortable, peaceful. To know nothing, to remember nothing, was to be nothing. He rested in that state for a while. With no clock in the room, no doors, and the windows covered in heavy curtains, he had no idea how long that rest lasted. Minutes? Hours? He wasn't hungry, so it couldn't have been days.

Somewhen it ended. The peaceful blankness gave way to frustrated blankness. He reached his right hand across to his left hip, but there was nothing there.

He realized he'd been through that chain of thoughts before. He'd forgotten that he'd forgotten. He was trapped in a cycle. First, there was peacefulness, then realization, then a moment of analyzing himself. Then it was all gone, and he was back to peacefulness again.

How many times had it happened? How many cycles was it? He was drowning in the peace, falling back in every time he tried to pull himself out.

The peace became frustration. The frustration became rage. This time he refused to forget.

He reached for his left hip again. There was supposed to be something there. A pocket maybe.

"Goddamn it," he said, then covered his mouth with his hands. He was not one who used that kind of language.

He felt a smile form behind those hands. He may not have known his name or his history, but he knew he didn't swear. He lowered his hands, frowning. Why didn't he swear?

A sound made him look up: two quick knocks at the door. They were professional, those knocks. Whoever made them was used to making them over and over every day. Knock knock, then open the door.

Perhaps: Knock knock, pause to let them realize you were coming in, maybe another pause to let them arrange their robes, then open.

There was a door. There was a door? Had that always been there? No, there was nothing, just a blank wall and windows. Now there was a door that creaked open.

He reached again for the pocket that wasn't there, for a tool that should have been in the pocket.

A man walked in, and he wanted to hit him with all his might. He clamped down that feeling, bewildered by it. He was a doctor, judging from the white robes with the Saint Mungo's logo stitched on them. He had a handsome face, but with the most bland smile he'd ever seen. Nothing in the doctor's appearance was threatening or hateful; he just wanted to hit him.

As the door became a wall again, the doctor held up a clipboard and read from it.

"Mister Troty," the doctor said, and lowered the clipboard. "How are you feeling?"

He blinked. Was that his name? It didn't call up any memories, as he expected. It just seemed like any name, like someone else's name.

"My name is Troty?"

"Yes. Harper Troty."

The doctor smiled again. He felt the urge to hit him again.

"You're suffering from amnesia," the doctor said. "That's quite rare. Almost unheard of in modern medicine."

He frowned at this. Yes, amnesia was rare in cases of injury or disease, but not with curses. There were dozens of curses and jinxes that could rob someone of their memory. Words popped up in his head: the names and counters for all those spells.

How did he know that? What kind of person knew so much dark magic? Was he evil? The thought filled him with dread, which quickly became relief. Dark wizards wouldn't feel bad about being evil. They'd relish it.

The doctor reached towards his face, and he flinched back. His hand went reflexively for that nonexistent pocket again. The doctor was touching his cheek, but he barely felt it. There was something on his skin. The doctor peeled it back and held it up. Some kind of green moss dangled from between his fingers.

"Jabseon's lichen," he said to the doctor. "It promotes skin growth and deadens pain."

The doctor, still looking at the clump in his hand, shook his head. "No." He sniffed it a second. "No, this is gillyweed." He pocketed it. A greasy stain spread out from the pocket.

He looked away from the doctor and reached up to touch his cheek. It was still numb from the plant (whatever it was). There was a long gash there, speckled with bumps. Not bumps, blisters. Plenty of curses caused scars: sectumsempra, secare abyssi, confodere velox. A few jinxes caused blisters: urerete, proculrun. He couldn't think of any that caused both, certainly none that caused both and amnesia.

Whatever hit him was something new. Someone had invented a layered curse. He didn't know much about discovering new spells. It was such a difficult and time-consuming pursuit few people dedicated themselves to it. Whoever created a two-layer spell like this one had to have been a master. He shuddered. What if there were four layers? Five? The more there were, the harder they would be to identify and counter. He might never be cured.

The doctor clapped his hands loudly. He jumped, and his hand went for the pocket. "Well, enough chitchat. It's time for your enema."

"My what?"

The doctor rolled back his sleeves and rubbed his hands together to warm them. "Not to worry! I've done this thousands of times."

He scooted away from the doctor as far as the bed would allow, curling up with his back against the headboard. The doctor patted his pants and jacket as if looking for something.

"Hm. Usually, I use a lubricant or jelly." He reached into the pocket where he put the lichen. The doctor smiled. "Well, this will have to do!"

The doctor stepped towards him, and he let out a long, loud squeal. He shook his head over and over again until his neck hurt.

"Oh, don't be such a baby, Harper," the doctor said, pulling the sheet down.

The door appeared in the wall again, and a squat woman with tight black hair entered. She was busy with a sheaf of papers and almost walked into the doctor. As she jerked to a stop, she stared at the tableau in front of her: a patient and a doctor fighting over bedsheets, the doctor reaching out with two oily, green fingers.

"Gilderoy!" she gasped.

Both men jumped as if slapped. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Finally, the patient spoke.

"Is my name Gilderoy?"

Her mouth became a sad, little smile. She shook her head.

"No. His name is Gilderoy."

He looked over at the doctor, who had his back to the wall and was staring sheepishly at his feet like a scolded child.

"Mister Lockhart," she said, "we've talked about this. You're not a doctor. You're a patient. Whose jacket did you steal this time?"

"They're mine," Gilderoy said. "I was awarded them by the Medical Conclave of Inverness after I cured their white tingle epidemic."

The woman ignored this and snapped her fingers. At this, Lockhart slowly removed the coat and handed it to her. Then, head bowed, he walked out the door. She stared after him as the door vanished, smoothing the white coat over her arm.

"Well, he's got some of his personality back, at least," she said. "Maybe in another decade or two he'll be able to feed himself."

"He said my name was Harper."

She turned back to the man in the bed. "No. That's just his mixed up mind. He has trouble reading. Sometimes he sees words as anagrams. Your name is Harry."

Something clicked in his head. Memories rushed back. Green light. High-pitched laughs. A cupboard. A flying car. Gryphons and goblets. Death. So many deaths. But love as well. Dark shiny hair and freckles. Protuberant eyes and pale eyebrows. Red hair and marriage. Children. Searing pain.

His hand went to the scar on his cheek. The woman tsked and pulled his fingers away.

"You shouldn't touch that," she said, appraising his wound. "Although it's almost healed. Looks like you've got another scar for your collection, Mister Potter."

Harry Potter. Yes. His hand went to the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He was a wizard. An auror. He left home every day to cross wands with the most vicious dark wizards and warlocks in the country.

"The pocket," he said. "It's for my wand."

He kept his wand in a dedicated pocket on his left hip and drew it with his right. The other aurors teased him about it. It took longer to draw if he had to reach across his body but keeping his wand on his right hip felt awkward. Besides, his wand seemed to know when he needed it. It almost jumped into his hand as he reached for it.

"You'll get your wand back soon," she said, consulting her sheaf of papers again. "We took it away. Hospital policy. We have to be sure you're not going to hurt yourself."

At the look on his face, she placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't worry, your wife has it."

"My wife?" Excitement rose in his chest, then fell. "I can't… I can't remember her."

She made a compassionate frown and tsked again. "I'm afraid your memory is going to be jumbled for a while, Mister Potter. Amnesia curses do that. You'll lose big chunks of your life, but they'll come back. Forgotten memories will jump out at you. Even repressed ones. Traumatic ones. Be patient with yourself. Be kind."

His eyes stung, and he wiped away the beginnings of tears. "Can I see her?'

"Yes. She's just outside. She's been in the waiting room for days."

The door reappeared as the doctor walked towards the wall. She reached for the knob and then paused, turning back to him.

"Please don't tell her about Gilderoy. She's been a little… Testy. I'd rather not set her off again."

Then she was gone. This time the door didn't vanish. It stayed there for a few minutes before opening again. A red-haired women came in, practically ran in. He didn't recognize her, but her hands were on his chin, and she was kissing him.

The kiss was enough, The memories rose out of the depths and clicked together like jigsaw pieces. Ginny. Their marriage in the back yard of the Burrow. Their home in Godric's Hollow. Their children: James Sirius, Albus Severus, Lily Luna.

Luna. He frowned at the feeling the name brought up. He shook it off, but it was hard. He was suddenly so tired.

Ginny was the reason he didn't swear. She tried not to be a scold, but every time he said a four-letter word her mouth tightened, and she went pale.

"I can take you home, soon," she said. "I wanted you home today, but they said something about observation. I was going to make a stink, but…"

She trailed off as she looked at him, her face heavy with concern. Then the concern vanished as if with a wave of her wand, becoming a smile, a blank, optimistic mask. She was good at that, he remembered. She was good at hiding her pain no matter how bad it was.

His eyelids were heavy, and he could barely focus on her. With each memory, he was getting more and more tired. Ginny pressed a cool hand against his good cheek.

"Sleep now, baby," she said.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Something, some thought wouldn't let him rest until he'd understood it.

When Ginny entered the room, his hand twitched. It reached for his pocket. She'd surprised him. He'd expected his wife. His wife had appeared. Why had that been so confusing? So upsetting? It was as if he'd expected his wife would be someone else. Hoped his wife would be someone else.

Someone with protuberant eyes and pale eyebrows.

Sleep took him.