Memento

Memento

Chapter 1

He opened his eyes and looked around. He was in the middle of a park, in a town he'd never seen before. He wasn't wearing normal clothes; he was wearing a long tattered travelling cloak, a worn-out blue T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. He felt tired and hungry, like someone usually feels after hours of sleep and food deprivation. He got up wearily, trying to regain his balance and then searched his pockets, looking for something. And when he couldn't find it, fear swept over him and he felt the need to sit down.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here? he thought as he sat on a park bench.

The air was chilly and the light was fading. He thought that it might be sometime in late August or early September. He didn't know what time it was or whether or not he belonged there. He drew his knees up to his chin and closed his eyes. So cold...So dark...Sleep...

A pair of red eyes...a cold laugh... A white room with chains and manacles dangling from the walls...So cold, so sterile...

"Wake up!" A command. Feet too weak to listen. Knees buckling. Hands outstretched to touch the floor. A pair of arms stopping him from falling. Someone slapping him hard across the face... Room swimming in and out of focus...Silvery-blond hair and grey eyes...

"Stand up! Extend your arm!" Pain...Cringe...That cold laugh again...Red eyes and slits for nostrils...Red eyes...eyes...

He opened his eyes. He was drenched in his own sweat. He felt even more tired than before and he desperately needed a bath. He could still remember the red eyes that seemed to drill a hole into his skull...

Then he saw them; five or six boys hitting what appeared to be clothes, laughing and smoking. And the biggest one of them, a fat blond boy with piggish eyes kept kicking the moaning clothes. Moaning clothes? He straightened up and tried to catch a glimpse of their victim, but a rat-faced boy spotted him and shouted, "Get him!"

His survival instincts kicked in and he started running, trying desperately to get away from them. The park was empty and dark. Left, right, straight ahead...He narrowly missed colliding into a bush but scraped his elbow when he tried to avoid it. So tired, so hungry...His feet were weak and he needed a break...He dared a glance over his shoulder at his attackers but didn't see them. Smiling, he stopped to rest...He never saw them coming...

"Big D, we've got him!" The rat-faced boy and two others had grabbed him from behind. They had twisted his arms at an odd angle and he felt that they might break them.

"Good. Let's see who this shabby character is."

The one they called Big D was a fat boy with blond hair and small piggish eyes. He seemed to have grown in width rather than in height. His clothes gave away the strong smell of tobacco and he looked slightly tipsy. However, when his chubby hand grabbed its victim's chin and lifted his head to look at him, he drew back in horror. "Look at his eyes. Piers, come look at him!"

The rat-faced boy listened to his boss and came around to see. The boy they had wanted to beat up was not only skinny and underfed; he also had the greyest eyes anyone had ever seen. Piers's lip quivered and he hit the boy right in the face. He gave a small moan and his head dropped. Right on cue, Big D punched him in the stomach and hit him in the shin. By the time the boy regained consciousness, his attackers had left. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and saw in horror that he had bitten his lip, drawing blood.

He tried to stand up and barely managed to get on all fours when a wave of nausea overcame him, and he threw up. He hadn't even realised he hadn't eaten anything. Clutching his stomach, he regained his balance and managed to make a few steps before he needed to kneel again. By the time he had left the park, it was well after dark and he needed to find a safe spot to sleep.

His feet were weak, he could barely keep his eyes open, yet there was blood and vomit on his face and he wanted to wash it off. He took a left turn and found himself facing rows of perfectly identical square houses with perfectly identical manicured lawns and perfectly identical cars. The sign read Magnolia Crescent, yet that was as foreign to him as the events of the past few days. He saw a house with a bird bath and made a beeline for it, hoping to find water. He was in luck. He shivered as he touched the icy surface, but he washed his hands and face.

"I'm in the middle of nowhere, I don't know how I got here or why. Heck, I can't even remember where I came from," he said to himself. And just when he wanted to let go of the bird bath, hoping his feet could still carry him, the moon shone amidst the clouds, lighting the water like the surface of a mirror. And the image scared him; blinking back at him was a pale boy with shining grey eyes, silvery-blond hair, and pointy cheekbones. He seemed to have lost all colour from his face...

"Let me see my son!"

"Lucius, we have received strict instructions from the Dark Lord. We can't let you see him!"

"He's my son, goddamit!"

"Lucius..."

"Hold him back, Crabbe!"

"Don't touch me! I'll hex you all! Let me see D..."

The moon disappeared behind a cloud and his reflection faded. He tried to grab it, to keep it there. But his fingers touched only water and his only chance of finding out his name dissipated.

"My name...My name begins with a 'D'. Damien...Daniel...D...Dudley? No, my parents would never call me that. What parent in his right mind would call his son Dudley?" he thought aloud as he walked down Magnolia Crescent. Turning another corner, he entered Privet Drive. The same houses, lawns, cars...Except for a man in a long cloak talking to an old lady. Finally, someone might tell him where he was.

As he made his way towards them, the man disappeared into thin air with a loud "pop" and the lady turned to look at the boy. Horrified, she dropped her bags and tins full of cat food fell out. He tried to help her, but she grabbed the cans and stuffed them hastily into a bag.

"I don't need your help." Her tone was something between cold and scared. She was shaking and as she passed him, he could've sworn he heard her muttering, "Must tell him. What is he doing here? That Mundugus! I'll give him a piece of my mind! Call me batty! Who's he to talk, sad excuse for dragon dung!"

The boy blinked a few times. The woman had turned a corner, still muttering. Mundugus? Dragon dung? What did they mean? He knew he had heard of these things before, but he couldn't tell where...And the man in the cloak, he had Disapparated right there. What if a Muggle had seen him? It was then that he realised he had been thinking about absurd things. He knew about Disapparating and Muggles, but how? Who was he? What was he?

He clutched his stomach. Nausea overcame him again. Punches, kicks, tobacco, red eyes, burning incense...The white room, the group of boys, the piano...Manacles and chains dangling from the walls...The world swirled around him and he desperately needed to sit down...

Then he saw the house with the lights on. He walked to it, almost tripping over his own feet. The path was full of gravel and any fall would hurt him. No 4 Privet Drive...Knocking on the door, he leaned against it, desperately trying to fight off the queasiness.

"Open the door, boy!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Steps...A lock...A key...He pushed himself back onto his feet. But nothing he had experienced in the last few days would prepare him for the skinny boy with jet black hair that hung at odd angles and brilliant green eyes hidden behind round spectacles, dressed in clothes at least three times as big as him. But it was the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead that made him unique. The blond blinked a few times, trying to remember who this character was. Then it struck him. Confusion written all over his face, he asked, "Harry Potter?"

The boy's expression changed from bewilderment to suspicion in under a second. Looking at the strange blond and measuring him from head to toe, he replied in a neutral tone, "Draco Malfoy?"

***

"Come on, you can do better than that!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The jet hit him. He slid backwards, eyes open wide, smile still lingering on his lips. The veil fluttered for a few seconds...then nothing. Bellatrix laughing...Lupin holding him back...Dumbledore fighting off Voldemort...Voldemort disappearing with Bella...The prophecy destroyed...The Boy-Who-Lived...

And Sirius, sliding beyond the veil...Dead? Gone?

Luna...telling him that they all return sooner or later...Nick, shattering his hopes...Ron and Hermione, comforting him...

And the image of a bear-like black dog, jumping around on Platform 9 and 3/4...following the train and barking madly...Sirius...his godfather...Sirius...Sirius...

"SIRIUS!" he yelled in his sleep and tumbled out of bed.

Harry wiped his tears. It was the fifth night in a row he had been dreaming about the Department of Mysteries. He felt that he needed to talk to someone, but who? Ron and Hermione would write back, telling him to try and admit Sirius's death. Dumbledore would write a cryptic message, rambling on about prophecies and ancient charms. Mrs Weasley would emphasize the need for a mother and the last thing Harry needed was to remember his parents' deaths. Lupin would write another soapy letter. Tonks...no, not Tonks. Moody...he didn't fit either. Mundugus...he'd probably offer him some stolen cauldrons. Harry reviewed the list in his head. Out of all of them, Mundugus seemed the best option.

Harry crawled back into bed. He pulled the covers over himself and tried to fall asleep again, but to no avail. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and wait for the next day. And he felt no sudden urge to embrace tomorrow. Dudley would avoid him, the Dursleys would bully him around, and he still had to mow the lawn...He knew that he could write to Tonks and go back to Grimmauld Place, but that place held too much of Sirius. He didn't want to face sleepless nights there.

By the next morning, Harry bore the marks of sleep deprivation: red puffy eyes and dark circles. He went down to breakfast, where he was greeted by Uncle Vernon's scowl, Aunt Petunia's unpleasant face, and Dudley's constant whining. Halfway through breakfast, Uncle Vernon dropped the bombshell, "You, boy, will start packing. You're not staying in this house another minute."

Aunt Petunia let out a shriek and dropped a plate, smashing it on the floor.

"Vernon, we can't. You don't know what he'll do to me. He has to stay here."

"But Petunia..."

"Vernon, the answer is no. He'll just have to stay."

Her words were followed by an uncomfortable silence. Harry knew they were referring to the Dementor attack on Dudley. And the fact that Harry had left just like that, without a note. He knew the Dursleys wouldn't miss him, but still...Aunt Petunia knew more than she showed and that exasperated Uncle Vernon to no end. Harry knew that, too. But it seemed that, for the moment, he would still stay in Privet Drive.

"Well, you'll just have to earn a living, boy."

"Doing what? I already work around here."

"Not nearly enough."

"Dudley doesn't lift a finger!" Harry felt his temper rising and his scar prickling.

"That's because I have you!" Dudley's reply was followed by snorts.

"Listen, boy, as long as you live under my roof, you will obey my rules. Now, after breakfast, you will clean up around here and mow the lawn. And you can wash my car when I get back."

Harry dug his fingernails into his palm. It hurt, but at least it stopped him from exploding.

"Fine."

His tone had become chilly, almost distant. Harry rose from the table and went back to his room. There he found a barn owl sitting on his bed, holding a copy of the Daily Prophet. He gave her a Knut before looking at the paper. The front page held the picture of Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, and a caption below read: More inquiries into the return of You-Know-Who. Ministry offers reward. More Death-Eater sightings. No casualties as of yet. Harry skipped the article on the next Weird Sisters concert and never even glimpsed at the three-page comment on Fudge's state. And as he was about to throw the paper away, he saw a small article labelled: Sirius Black receives full Ministry pardon. Harry's eyes widened. After re-reading the title, he devoured the few sentences.

Sirius Black, ex-convict and only man ever to escape Azkaban without outside help, has received a full pardon from the Ministry on account of the crimes committed on the 31^st October 1982, particularly the murder of Lily and James Potter. Black was accused of having betrayed the Potters, leading to their deaths, then having murdered fellow schoolmate Peter Pettigrew. He spent twelve years in Azkaban and escaped in 1994. The Ministry has been looking for him ever since, but they now think he is either dead or in hiding.

Harry wiped his tears. After so long...Dumbledore might have had a word in this, of course, but it didn't really matter. At least Sirius wouldn't be called a murderer any longer. Harry cut out the article and stuck it on the interior side of his trunk. That way, every time he opened it, he would see the article. Smiling for the first time in weeks, he sat at his desk and scribbled a note for Lupin, telling him to buy the paper. Hedwig seemed reluctant to leave, as she had been out all night hunting, but a few strokes convinced her.

Harry watched her until he couldn't see her any longer, then he went downstairs and out in the garden, where he spent the rest of the morning mowing the lawn. The sun was already high by the time Aunt Petunia called him in for a quick lunch. One sandwich and a glass of water later, Harry was busy dusting and cleaning Dudley's room. He found a couple of empty cigarette packs, a few names scribbled on a piece of paper and half a dozen magazines that clearly exceeded PG-13 level. Smiling to himself, Harry thought that he would tease Dudley for a while. He could almost see the looks on Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's faces when he would tell them: disbelief, shock...Or maybe Uncle Vernon would pat Dudley on the back and call him a hero. Each version had its appeal...

For a minute, though, Harry realised that he had outgrown childish affairs and that it felt silly to continue tormenting Dudley. After all, he wasn't eleven anymore and he didn't fear Dudley and his gang. He had fought the world's most powerful Dark wizard and had won, at least for the time being. But at what cost? He had lost his godfather, his parents, and, he hated admitting it, part of his sanity. Sighing, Harry placed the magazines under the bed and reached out for more debris. He came across a broken mirror. Taking it, he gazed at his own reflection: messy jet black hair, bright green eyes, glasses, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. If it hadn't been for that scar...

He heard a car backfire on the street and a child screaming, but he couldn't tear himself away from his reflection. The screams and the noise faded...The world swirled around him...Harry couldn't stop staring at the image...And staring back at him was a skull-like face with red eyes...Lord Voldemort...

Voldemort stepped back from the mirror and adjusted his cloak. He turned to the kneeling man and beckoned him to rise.

"Why have you come, Dolohov?"

The skinny man with blue eyes and light brown hair shifted uneasily. He wanted to stick his hands into his pockets, but that might offend his Master. His gaze travelled from the tattered walls to the moth-eaten furniture and settled on the dirty carpet. His voice was almost a whisper as he spoke.

"My Lord, we have lost track of him. We followed the instructions and left him there, as you ordered, but he panicked and ran before we could put a Tracking Charm on him. We do not know where he is and we risk exposure to Muggles if we try and find him."

"Fools! Why did he panic? He was supposed to be fed before you sent him there!"

Dolohov's eyes widened in shock.

"But..."

"You didn't feed him?" Voldemort's tone had gotten colder. "Idiots! Complete idiots! Send Wormtail here immediately!"

Dolohov bowed and left the room hurriedly. Voldemort turned back to the mirror. His pale lips spread into a wicked grin as he said, "I see you!"

Harry opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the mirror. He seemed to have slept for hours. His limbs were tired, as if he had travelled a long distance through space. Groaning loudly, he got up and left Dudley's room half-cleaned. Harry walked back to his own room and found Hedwig sitting on his desk, holding a letter in her beak. Recognising Lupin's handwriting, Harry opened it and read,

Harry,

Thank you for the owl, I bought the paper and read the article. He would've liked it, I'm sure. I know he was a bit hard on you during that awful year with Umbridge (he seemed to have a lot of trouble properly writing her name), but he really loved you. He once told me he was sorry for all those Quidditch matches he couldn't take you to. He's still watching. He'll come back, I'm sure he will. (Harry shook his head in a psychiatrist sort of way, thinking of Lupin and his deplorable state.) In the meantime, keep your nose clean, don't break the rules and remember Padfoot.

Regards,

Remus J Lupin

Harry folded the parchment and placed it in his trunk. It was hard to think about Sirius and Lupin, mainly because of the nightmare that played before his eyes. It was hard to think about Sirius falling into nothingness, a smile playing on his lips. It was hard to think about Lupin, with his gaunt face and shabby clothes, locked up in Grimmauld Place with Kreacher, the mad portrait of Mrs Black, and the full moon approaching. It was generally hard to think about anything that had to do with his Fifth Year... Harry blinked back a few unshed tears and went downstairs, where Uncle Vernon threw him an insult about unfinished business and unwashed cars.

Harry walked out, trying not to stare at anyone, and turned to go to the park. But before he could decide whether or not he wanted to spy on Dudley, Mrs Figg, the batty neighbourhood cat lady caught up with him. She was still wearing her carpet slippers and a hairnet. Harry gave himself a mental punch for having left the house in the first place and asked in a cheerful tone, "How are you, Mrs Figg?"

The woman gave him a smile before answering, "Dumbledore told me to take extra care of you now. He says You-Know-Who's planning something big. Are you sure you don't want to talk this over tea and biscuits? It would do you some good, you know."

Harry tried to force the cheery smile back onto his face as he replied, "No, thank you. I think I have to go back. Uncle Vernon wants me to finish cleaning up Dudley's room."

"I could talk to them..."

"No, there's no need for that. I'll be just fine, Mrs Figg..."

Harry waved as he turned on his heels. He hated lying to Mrs Figg; she was only being annoying for his own good, but the prospect of going back to the house that smelled of rotten cabbage, the house of a tortured childhood... Harry sat down on the nearest garden wall and noticed the bushes where he had first glimpsed Sirius, as a dog, before Third Year. Looking closer, he thought he saw a pair of eyes... Squinting, he saw them... Eyes, blinking back at him...

"Sirius!" he yelled, running towards the bush. Mr Tibbles gave a loud "meow" and rubbed himself against Harry's legs. He gave the cat a kick before adding, "Go away. Tell her I don't need protection." Mr Tibbles gave him a Hermione-looking glare before leaving in search of his master.

"Stupid cat," Harry mumbled to himself as he walked back onto Privet Drive. Most houses had their lights on, the residents surely watching the late news or something. None of those Muggles had any knowledge of Voldemort's doings. Or of Harry's brave deeds. They cared only about themselves...

"You didn't wash my car, boy!" Uncle Vernon bellowed as Harry entered the house.

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"You'd better."

Harry ignored his curses and walked up to his room, where a large barn owl was waiting, a letter in its beak. Harry dashed towards it and opened the message in less than a second. Recognising Dumbledore's writing, he read,

Harry,

Hope you are well. Take care and remember last summer.

"Take care? I'm putting up with these lunatics and all you can say is take care?"

Harry crumbled the piece of parchment and threw it in the bin, anger in his every gesture. He heard the doorbell and Uncle Vernon yelling at him to answer it.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Walking down the stairs, Harry reached the door and opened it. Staring back at him was not Dudley. Nor was it Mrs Figg. Or Dumbledore, Tonks, Moody or a dozen other people Harry was expecting. Neither Ron nor Hermione. Staring back at him was a boy in a dirty T-shirt, a faded pair of jeans, and a long travelling cloak. He smelled of dirt and sewers, as though he had spent the night on the street. His shirt was smeared with blood and what appeared to be vomit. But only when Harry looked closer did he draw back in shock. This boy was not only dirty and smelly. He also had pale-blond hair, a pointed ferret-face, and the most intense grey eyes Harry had ever seen...Or ever wanted to see...

"Harry Potter?" he asked in a bewildered tone.

Harry gave him one more look, bewilderment replaced by suspicion, and replied in a cold tone, "Draco Malfoy?"