And So Life Goes On...

Chapter Two
The Doctor Visits

Every Monday since Harry can remember, he has gone for a checkup. It is Monday during his lunch break that he goes to his doctor's office. The old, old man that works there at the front desk always smiles at him and offers him a lemon drop. Harry usually declines because the lemon drops have a strange taste to them that he does not like very much.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," the ancient man, Albus says, and like always he pushes a tin of lemon drops to him. "Would you like a lemon drop?"

Harry shakes his head and smiles. "No, no thank you."

"Well then," Albus remarks, "please follow me this way."

Like every other Monday, Harry follows Albus to one of the patient rooms where he sits down on the hard cushion half-chairs, half-beds and lets the old man ask him pertinent questions regarding his health. None of this is strange to Harry. What is weird are the looks that Albus and his doctor usually exchange before Harry's examination.

Sometimes Harry almost thinks Albus is giving his doctor a warning look, but that makes little sense. Why would an assistant do that? But before he can think of how odd the look is, it disappears and makes Harry think that his imagination is playing tricks on him again. Or at the least, that his mind is conjuring up fantastical stories that simply cannot be real.

"Dr. Snape will be in here shortly," Albus says, smiling in that cheery way of his before leaving the room.

Harry nods and twiddles his thumbs, looking at the stark white walls. He wonders why there are no decorations, no artwork, or anything to make the room a little livelier and friendlier. But then again, when he thinks about his first impression of Dr. Snape, the décor does not seem so surprising anymore. If there is a man that fits this stark, cold, and rigid room it is Dr. Snape. Even his given name, Severus, suits him.

It occurs to Harry that he knows a lot of people with odd names. Albus, rather odd. Hermione, some Greek origin of some sort. And Severus, Latinate, anyone? But it is nice, he thinks, that their parents were original in their naming. There is nothing duller than to have a name that everyone has. Harry still has not decided if he likes his name or not. Harry Potter? What kind of name is that?

The door flies open and before he can see his doctor, he hears, "Mr. Potter, late as usual." Harry wonders if he is right that Dr. Snape sounds critical, or if he is just stating a fact. "So how are you feeling today?"

Harry does not miss the sharp look Albus gives to his doctor, nor does he miss the way Dr. Snape presses his lips tightly together. "I'm doing well," Harry answers, hoping to break the tension he feels between the two of them. He does not know why, but he feels that it is worse today than in past days. "My head doesn't hurt."

"No nightmares?" Dr. Snape asks, looking at him intently. Harry also finds it odd how closely his doctor stares at him sometimes, as if he wants to say something but holds his tongue instead.

Shaking his head, Harry smiles but it falters when he notices his doctor frown. "I don't think I need to take the medicine anymore," Harry remarks. "I mean, you said it was to help with my head injury after the accident, but I feel fine. It's been more than three years, hasn't it? I think I've gotten to the point where I don't need it anymore."

Dr. Snape pinches the bridge of his nose and shifts around uncomfortably, readjusting his white coat. "I would not advise you to stop taking your pills. They are supposed to help you, Potter, and you do trust my judgment, don't you?"

"I do," Harry says, picking at some flaky skin around his nail cuticle. "It's just, the pills, they make me dizzy and such."

"It's why you're advised to take them after you eat," his doctor responds dryly. Harry feels his doctor's dark eyes once again trained on him. "I take it you haven't been eating a decent breakfast before taking them."

Blushing, Harry ducks his head in shame. "No, sir, I haven't." His doctor glares at him, and Harry's cheeks burn an even brighter red. "I don't have time to eat if I want to get to work on time."

Dr. Snape rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Foolish, impertinent brat, will you ever learn to listen to me?"

Harry lifts his head and grins like an idiot. He knows he ought to feel insulted, but he has heard the same insults for so long about his insolent, defiant behavior for so long that he has gotten used to it. He feels like he has a pretty good working relationship with his doctor. The bantering is the one reason he does not mind coming on the weekly visits. Long ago, he started to question why he still had to come on weekly visits when he has recovered nicely. Especially since the treatments he has been getting don't seem to help.

"I do try," Harry replies with contrite. "I just, it seems, have a hard time following instructions?"

"And arriving on time," Dr. Snape mutters and again Harry catches an odd look exchanged between his doctor and the old man. Harry notices his doctor pressing his lips into a thin, straight unforgiving line. "What about your headaches? Do you still have them?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, not for a while, which is why I don't think I need to take the pills."

"Fortunately for me," his doctor remarks, "you're not the doctor, are you?"

And then when Harry almost thinks he might like Dr. Snape, he goes and says something like that which makes him almost hate the man. Harry grits his teeth. Even though his doctor is being an egotistical prick, he does have a very valid point. "I'm not."

"And I say you need to keep taking the po--prescribed medication," his doctor says.

Harry sighs and wonders if he will ever get off the stupid pills. "Every morning?"

"Yes, every morning after you eat. Remember that." Dr. Snape jabs a finger in Harry's direction. "It's important that you eat. The medicine is not meant to be taken without food. Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"One last thing," his doctor comments, and Harry knows what is coming for it is always the last question, "are you having any flashbacks?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

And to Harry's surprise, he always does sound sorry. "It's not your fault."

"Yes, well... I feel like I'm not doing my job as your doctor..." Dr. Snape says, his eyes shifting around before settling on the white wall. "So will you try to follow my directions regarding your medication?"

"I will try," Harry promises.

"Good." Dr. Snape nods and gestures to man at his side. "Albus will get you your pills. I'll see you next Monday, Mr. Potter."

"Good-bye, Dr. Snape," Harry murmurs while he watches his doctor stalk off.

He is startled from his staring when the old man touches his shoulder and reminds him gently, "If you'll come with me, Mr. Potter?" Harry gets up from the chair and follows Dr. Snape's assistant to where the pills are kept. "Remember," Albus says with eyes that seemed far too wise, "take one pill a day."

Handing the pills to Harry, the old man gestures to the jar of yellow candy. "Are you sure you don't want a lemon drop?"

"I'm sure," Harry says, and smiles. "Thanks." He shoves the pills into his pockets. "Have a good day."

"The same to you, Mr. Potter. The same to you."

Harry feels relieved when he is out of the doctor's office. He does not like coming here, but he knows that his friends will get on his case if he tries to stop going. They say it is for the best, that if he believes the treatment will work, it will. His friends are also adamant that Dr. Snape is the best in his field, and there is no other doctor in London that he ought to see. Still he gets the feeling that maybe another doctor, even an inferior one, might be able to offer new insights that his doctor is missing.

Not like it matters, Harry has long since given up.

-

Pulled from the white void in which he had wandered, he felt weariness where previously there had been none. He opened his eyes and registered that the light was dim, though it felt a thousand times brighter than it was. Everything was hazy and unclear until someone propped glasses onto his nose. Then he saw too many faces, faces he did not recognize and wondered if he had ever known.

"Harry?" Who was that? "Harry, you're finally awake!" a woman, a young woman with bushy hair cried out. He must be Harry, but he did not know whether he was or not. He couldn't remember...

"Hey mate," said a red-headed man. "Welcome back."

There were other faces too, but a dark-haired, dark-eyed man watching him from the corner stood out. He wanted to get a better look, but other faces popped in front of him--one with a starch-white uniform who looked like the doctor, and one with a long beard and blue eyes that pierced into his own--and he lost sight of the dark stranger. So many faces at once, he felt overwhelmed and wanted to shrink back away from it. He had to look away.

"Harry," the lady doctor said, "how are you feeling?"

He felt terrible, and he was going to say that too but instead, he croaked, "Are you my doctor?" The woman looked startled, and he thought maybe he was wrong. Maybe she was someone else.

"No, Harry, I'm not..."

Black dots blotted his vision, and he felt himself about to fall back into oblivion. Before he did, he had to ask, "Who am I?"

The last thing he recalled were many widening eyes before he passed out.

-

When Harry picks up his mobile, he knows who it is going to be. Hermione has never failed to call after one of his doctor's appointment. She says she is afraid one day he will forget to go. He thinks Hermione is paranoid, but her reasoning is not without rationale. He has to admit, he did forget to go once, but that was a rather extraordinary circumstance. It is not everyday that one of the kids has to be admitted to the hospital. In the mayhem, he had simply forgotten.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaims. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he says, like he always says. "And you?"

"Very good," she responds. "Oh Harry, you didn't forget to go to your doctor's appointment, did you?"

He smiles, just as he thought. She is almost too predictable. "No," he answers. "I didn't forget. I went during my lunch break like I do every week. That time three months ago, it was just a fluke. You really don't need to call me every Monday to remind me."

Harry has no trouble imagining Hermione trying to loosen up, but still having her concern remain visible. "It's just..." she murmurs, and then sighs, "I guess you could say I'm a bit of a worrywart."

"Only a bit?" he teases.

"Hush you," she mutters. "Is it wrong for me to worry about you?"

He shakes his head, but then remembers she cannot see him. "No, no it's not."

-

The woman, one of his doctors, said her name was Pomfrey, but that he could call her Poppy if he wished. But it felt weird to call her something so informal. He felt better sticking with the proper name. It was easier, especially when he didn't feel familiar enough to be on first name basis. He clenched a fistful of bed sheets. Why could he not remember anything? Nothing was familiar, damnit!

"Please calm down, Harry," Dr. Pomfrey said soothingly. "You need to relax. If you can't concentrate, I can come back tomorrow and we can try again then."

"No," he mutters. "No, stay. I have to get through this, I have to."

She pats his hand reassuringly and sits down again. "Okay. Then I'll continue with my questions?" He nodded, and she pulled something off her clipboard and showed it to him. "Do you know who these people are?"

The picture was strange, still and lifeless of two people he knew to be dead already. He did not recognize them from memory, but he saw the resemblance they shared with him and he could deduce that they were his parents. He had spent hours looking at the mirror, rememorizing his face to know, looking at the picture, that he had his mother's eyes and cheekbones, his father's hair and chin. His nose might be a combination of both, neither quite as tall as his father's nor as short as his mother's. He guessed his height was from his mother because he did not feel tall, and his build was probably his mother's too. Slender form, wiry muscles, and generally short.

"Harry?"

It took him a moment to realize she was calling him--his name. "Yes?"

"Do you know who they are?" she asked.

"My parents," he said. "They're my parents."

She smiled and placed another photo on top of his parents' picture. There were three people in this one: a redhead boy, a bushy hair girl, and him. "Do you remember who these two are?"

The first thing he thought when he looked at the picture was that the three of them were really comfortable around each other. The redhead's arm was slung around his shoulders, and he saw that he had a grin on his face. While he did not have his arms wrapped around anyone, he was pressed quite close to the girl's side and like him, she was beaming too. He was certain, absolutely, that the three of them were good friends, maybe even best friends.

"I don't know their names, but I think they're my friends."

"Good, good," she said, still smiling. "Are you remembering anything?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he glanced hard at the photo. Did he remember them? "No," he answered. "I don't remember."

"It's okay. It takes time."

-

Late in the evening, it is just Teddy and him. The older kids that usually hang around his office, like Vera and Racquel, have already been picked up. Mondays are longer than other days because it is the first day of the work week, and it is just slow. Most parents pick the kids up thirty minutes later than usual, and like normal Teddy's Aunt Patricia is the latest.

"Harry," Teddy says, and Harry looks at him, "can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Harry responds with a gentle smile. "What's on your mind?"

"Um..., what's it like not to have... any memories?" The boy tilts his head to the side and peers up at him with an earnest, curious expression. "I mean, it's weird, isn't it?"

It does not surprise Harry that Teddy is asking this. A part of him wonders why it took so long. Regardless of whether or not he was expecting it, it is not an easy question to answer. Harry drapes his arm across Teddy's shoulder and sighs. "It is weird," he agrees. "But like everything that gets thrown at you, you have to deal with it or just sink into self-pity." He grins and he tousles Teddy's hair. "Obviously, I decided not to be pathetic."

Teddy rests his head against Harry's shoulder. "I'm glad."

Harry resists the urge to brush a kiss on the kid's forehead. He has to remind himself that Teddy isn't his, even if he wishes it were so. "So am I, so am I," Harry murmurs. "But it's hard, not remembering. Makes it difficult on not only you, but your friends. I'm lucky though, I've got great friends who understand and stand by me. You can't ask for more, especially when you've got no family."

"You're like me," Teddy remarks. "You're an orphan like me."

Nodding with sudden realization that, yes, Teddy and he do share the lack of parents. "How did you lose your parents?" Harry asks and then blanches. "Oh god, that was insensitive of me. You don't have to answer that, Teddy. I'm--"

"They were killed," Teddy whispers and wraps his arms around Harry's waist. "Someone murdered them."

A chill runs down Harry's spine at Teddy's confession. He instinctively pulls the boy closer and hugs him tightly. "I'm sorry," Harry says softly. "So sorry that something so awful happened to you."

Teddy shudders against him and clings on even more. "I've never told anyone."

Rubbing Teddy's back soothingly, Harry says, "I'll always be here for you."

-

It was awkward, sitting across from two people he ought to remember but did not. Dr. Pomfrey had told him that they were his best friends, and that their names were Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He studied them: they looked concerned, and a little apprehensive about how to act around him. He wanted to reassure them, but did not know how.

"Harry," the girl--Hermione--said, "how are you feeling?"

"All right," he answered. "How are you?" It was an automatic response, something polite that he knew he ought to say. He did not know if he was generally courteous or if he was more of the rude sort. He would like to believe himself to be civil, but one never knew. The best way to find out about who he was, Dr. Pomfrey had said, was to ask those who knew him best. Who better than his best friends?

"We're good," she responded, a smile lifting the misgiving on her features. "Ma--Dr. Pomfrey said that we should come and answer some questions for you, that we might be able to tell you what she couldn't answer."

He nodded, wondering what the panicked look on her face had been about before she had switched gears. "I just... wanted to know something about myself." He smiled sheepishly and glanced down at his hands. "She said I should ask, well, my best friends."

The redhead--Ron grinned and said, "That's what we're here for, Harry."

It still felt strange being called Harry when he did not feel like Harry. He knew he was. He had been told he was, but if feeling like he was Harry was as easy as if someone said he was--then the concept of identity would have been too easy. If he could be someone just in words, how easy it would be. He cracked his knuckles, and chewed on his bottom lip.

"Harry?" Hermione called, drawing him from his thoughts. He blinked and refocused on her face, he saw concern and worry etched into lines that should not be on her. She was still too young to have wrinkles like that. "What do you want to know?"

Yes, what did he want to know? "I don't know," he muttered. "Tell me about my life? Everything that you can?"

She pursed her lips together thoughtfully and glanced at Ron, nudging him with her elbow. "I suppose I should go first," Ron said. "After all, I was the one who met you first." He rubbed his chin, and his eyes had a faraway look of someone seeing something that was not there. "If I remember correctly, we met on the H--"

Hermione coughed abruptly, and Ron's eyes lost their hazy look. "Sorry about that," she said, glancing at redhead next to her. "Please continue, Ron."

"Right," he said. "Let's see, we met on a train on our way to boarding school..."

-

"Teddy," a short, haggard woman says, "are you ready to go?"

Harry has seen Teddy's Aunt Patricia so often that it is a shock when she does not pick up her nephew. And today, he notes, she looks more tired than normal. Harry actually thinks that if it isn't for Victor, Teddy's home life would be fine, maybe even good. He suspects it's the uncle who causes the problems since Patricia Delmont seems to be a nice enough woman. Secretly, Harry envies that Teddy has real family.

Teddy is still clinging to Harry when he turns to his aunt. "Do I have to go?"

Harry smiles apologetically at Teddy's aunt, because he knows what Patricia will say since she answers the same question nearly everyday: "Yes! You know that we have to get going as soon as possible so I can make dinner for you and your uncle. You know how upset Uncle Victor gets when we're late, and we already are late."

Everyone is late on a Monday, Harry thinks. It is just the way things are. "Teddy," he says, as usually does, and pushes the boy up, "you ought to get going. I'm sure the train's a mess at this time."

"It is," Patricia remarks with a smile as she holds out her hand. "Come on, Teddy. You'll be back tomorrow."

Teddy drags his feet, but takes his aunt's hand. "Bye, Harry."

"Good-bye Teddy."

The two of them, so similar in coloring and stature--it is not hard to think they might be mother and son--start to walk off, but then they pause. Patricia turns around and says, "Thank you, for everything that you do, Mr. Potter."

"You're welcome," he responds. "But it's nothing really." He beams at both of them. "It's a lot of fun, and well, Teddy in ways... reminds me of, well, me."

-

The strange man who came sometimes with Dr. Pomfrey to check on him was with her again. Usually he would stand in the corner and watch them. Today, though, the stranger stood next to her and stared. Dark eyes, intense eyes seemed to penetrate into his very being. He had the feeling that this stranger was not as much of a stranger as he assumed, even though he had yet to be introduced--or was it reintroduced?--to him yet.

"Good morning, Harry," Dr. Pomfrey greeted him with a smile. "How are you feeling today?"

"Pretty well," he answered, sitting up in his bed, though it took a little effort. He was still a bit shaky and weak. His doctor had told him he would probably feel like that for a few months, until he got his strength back, considering he had been in a coma for nearly two years. It was amazing, he thought, that he was alive. "And you?"

"I'm wonderful," she said, and she raised her hand toward the man next to her. "This man, Dr. Severus Snape, will help you with your physical recovery as well as your memory loss. He specializes in, what you have, retrograde amnesia, while I'm more of a head trauma specialist. And I must say, you've been healing quite nicely, though I expected you to wake up a lot sooner than you did. But nevertheless, late is better than never, right?"

He smiled back and nodded because she seemed to expect it. He had guessed from limited interactions with his best friends that he was the type of person people depended on. He just sensed that they looked to him for something, though he did not know what. What could a memory loss victim offer to the world in reassurance? He wished they would understand he was lost, and maybe this man--Dr. Severus Snape--would understand.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Snape," he murmured politely. He held out his hand, and the dark man stared down in a dubious regard. After pressing his lips together, the man took Harry's hand and shook it once before dropping it.

"Mr. Potter," his new doctor said stiffly, "the pleasure is mine."

"Have I met you before?" he asked, his eyes flickering to Dr. Pomfrey for either confirmation or denial. "You seem--I don't know--kind of familiar, though I'm not sure..."

"You might have seen him around your room, recently," Dr. Pomfrey remarked, her eyes sliding over to her colleague before returning back to her patient. "He has been studying your case, trying to see if he can treat you. You might have seen his assistant around a lot too."

"His assistant?" he queried.

"Yes," she responded. "The old man with a long beard? He has deep blue eyes."

"That man is Dr. Snape's assistant?"

She nodded. "Yes, he is."

"He stares at me a lot," he remarked. "I didn't know why, but I suppose now it makes sense. But it was weird, not knowing, why he was in the room a lot looking at me."

"My assistant," Dr. Snape murmured, his eyes trained on him, "has a tendency to be a little odd at times. Don't mind him, he is just doing his job. He is paid to observe, and he relays his observations to me so that I can best decide how to treat you."

"Will you be able to help me?"

Dr. Snape sighed and his shoulders tensed. "I will try my best to help you, but you must realize Mr. Potter, you've been in a coma for two years. It is remarkable that you are even alive. The amount of head trauma you were subjected to should have left you brain dead, if not mentally impaired. The fact that you came out of it with only amnesia is a blessing. Am I not right, Dr. Pomfrey?"

"Dr. Snape is quite right, Harry. You are a very lucky young man."

"But," he said, looking earnestly at the two doctors standing side by side, "there is hope?"

The smile on Dr. Snape's face was strained. "Perhaps."

-

He likes to sit alone in his flat looking from his window, watching random people walking on the pavement below. He wonders if he might have known some of them before, but he knows it is unlikely. Everyone he does know, he has probably already met. His friends followed Dr. Snape's advice to show him everything of his past to see if he might remember anything. And he does not, though they keep trying. All he knows is what they have told him. He might wish things were different, but things are as they are.

He has accepted the way his life is, he just wishes his friends, and even his doctors, would give it up. He does not want to take the medication anymore. He does not want to recall what he obviously cannot remember. He wants to forget about his past life; even as good as they said it was. It is not important to him anymore. What is important is the life he has now.

He might not have any talents, but he likes to think that he is doing something meaningful in the world. That even though he does not know his past, he can still have a future. Besides, he has his friends and the children at the shelter. They fill his life with meaning, and he is happy. Even if he could get his memories back, he does not know if he would be any happier.

A part of him thinks it would only be worse.

TBC