And So Life Goes On...

Chapter Six
Forget Not This

He sits on his bed trying to forget what he now knows.

"People worshipped you for something you did when you were a mere baby. It was absurd placing so much faith in you as the next great savior of the Wizarding World, especially when all you could do consciously was cry. I never believed you were great, I still don't--but you are very, very powerful. If you weren't, you would never have defeated him."

Harry flips through the yellowed pages of a book with newspaper clippings. Most of them are of him but there are some from the war. There's a list of people that died, he does not expect to recognize any of them, but his finger stops at one familiar name. Is there some truth in the lies he has been told?

"He was killed a few years ago by a madman," Hermione's voice echoes in his head. "But the madman is gone now, locked away."

"Remus Lupin," he whispers. "Did a madman really kill you?"

He senses an intuition in him that says yes, that this is no lie. Yet he is not sure of anything anymore. Draco was right in saying that his life would be thrown into chaos. What is truth and untruth?

He has no idea anymore.

"War is a terrible thing," Draco says, pointing to the pictures of mothers crying while holding their dead children. "It destroys families, lives, and the future. Look at what it did to your own family, but you were the hero everyone wanted. You did exactly what the Wizarding World wanted, you stopped it. Weren't you such a good, sacrificing Gryffindor?"

The first time he only hears the information, but the echo in his head this time sounds bitter. There are moments when he does not have a clue why Draco is helping him. It makes no sense if he hates him. Even if he has nothing to do, why this?

"I am not doing this out of the goodness of my heart," Draco says sharply, as if Harry would misinterpret if a kinder tone was used. "Nor is it because I feel sorry for you, it's because I want to do this."

He personally thinks Draco is lying to himself.

"You were 23 when you defeated him, a young man facing Voldemort, a wizard that might have looked less than a man, but was possibly at his strongest ever. I don't think there was a wizard alive that could have stopped him, but you." Draco smirks as if he is going to tell him something astonishing. "It wasn't your great skill as a wizard that defeated him. As powerful as you might be, I don't think your innate magic is even half of Voldemort's. But there is something about you that's different, that the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, for some reason didn't work on you."

No wonder Draco smiles, Harry muses. He turns another page of the scrapbook and sees a picture of his doctor, Severus Snape, appearing haggard, beaten and a little sad. It's a strange look for the usually harsh-looking man. But it makes sense in a way, though his expression is more depressing than he would think from a Professor who hated him.

"You, being ridiculously self-sacrificing stepped in front of a Killing Curse meant for Severus Snape, why, I have no idea," Draco sneers lightly. "I might like the man, but you certainly didn't. There was nothing between you and him but hatred."

The picture makes little sense though. If Snape hates him, should he not rejoice?

"You think far too much of yourself, Potter," Snape snaps when he asks the man whether he hates him. "Why ever would I want to conjure enough energy to feel that way about you? It would take more effort than you are worth."

Why answer if Snape is going to give an answer like that?

"You were Dumbledore's Golden Boy and you could do no wrong. He favored--"

"Albus Dumbledore?"

"Yes, the Headmaster of Hogwarts favored you above all else as you were his boy hero."

To him, Albus is nothing more than Snape's assistant. Thinking of him as something more, such as the great wizard that Draco says he is--Harry finds it difficult. There is little feeling of a powerful wizard beneath the cheerful, twinkling exterior. Now, in Dr. Snape, Harry can see a wizard and a strong one at that. He senses a strength and control ordinary men don't have. Though maybe Albus tries to seem weak and vulnerable?

"You have good instincts, use them," Severus snaps.

Should he trust Draco?

-

On his answering machine, as usual on a Sunday morning, there was a message from Dr. Snape's assistant telling him he had an appointment to come in on Monday. Sometimes, he really wished they would give up on him and tell him he no longer had to see a doctor anymore. He also wished he didn't have to take his medicine. It had the tendency to make him feel overly nauseated to the point where he wished he could throw his guts up. His doctor said to eat, but eating only made him more likely to expel the contents of his stomach, which was why he didn't.

Harry stared at the medicine and debated whether to eat something first. He knew he should eat, but really, why should he if was not going to change anything? He knew and had told his doctor, but still Dr. Snape insisted that he eat. Did the man not care if he threw up or not?

Harry wrinkled his nose and popped the pills into his mouth. He took a glass of water and washed it down. It would be a good half an hour before he would start feeling ill. He would become dizzy and a bit groggy, but other than that he would be fine as long as he didn't eat beforehand.

He wondered if sleeping was against the rules too, not that he cared. Sleep was good.

-

Saturday mornings are weird. Harry has no idea what to do with himself. It's not like Friday when he goes to see his old friends or Monday when he has his doctor appointments. It's just Saturday. He supposes he could call Ron or Hermione and ask what they're up to, but he doesn't think he can act normally around them when he knows the lies they have fabricated.

And Draco said not to do anything stupid while he is away.

Damn Draco and his business trip, Harry curses. Now he is stuck here in No Man's Land, trapped on an island full of questions with no answers. He twists around on the bed and buries his head into the pillow. He wishes that he was sleeping and that when he wakes up this had never happened.

But it has.

-

One Saturday, Harry had gotten it into his head to drop by Ron's apartment for a random house call. He knew that his friends had always warned him to call beforehand, but this was supposed to be a surprise. He had even stopped at a floral shop along the way to buy a housewarming bouquet of daisies. He didn't really have a reason to drop by, just thought it would be nice to go there without them having to urge him to come over. He hated feeling like an intruding pest, especially now they have started dating.

He felt like he was a pretty bad friend when he hadn't been all excited for Ron and Hermione, when they announced about a year after he had woken up from his coma that they were dating. He had been stunned at the news that Friday, not really sure how to react, and that was why he decided to do this--to say that he did approve. He assumed that Hermione would be spending the night and even if she wasn't, the daisies were a nice gesture. Ron would probably be perplexed, but he could always say defensively that what else was a gay guy suppose to get?

Besides, he hadn't a clue what to get them and he felt it was bad if he dropped by without anything. White and yellow daisies it was. They were pretty, cheerful, bright and exactly what Harry hoped their relationship would be: happy.

The only problem was, he couldn't find the apartment. He stood between the two doors where he usually stood to knock on Ron's flat, but there was only a blank wall with no door on which to knock. How odd, he thought, touching the wall and wondering where the door was. He could have sworn this was where Ron's flat was, but maybe he had walked into the wrong building. He heard a familiar voice coming from the wall, squinted hard, and a flash was all he remembered.

He blinked and stared down at the bouquet he was clutching. "Why did I buy daisies?"

-

Saturday has gone by with him doing nothing more than sitting around thinking. If he has to go through another day like that he thinks he'll end up crazy. He has no idea what to do on a Sunday, especially since he is avoiding his friends--at least until Draco gets back on Thursday. He knows he cannot handle pretending to be oblivious to what has happened, not with his friends. Phone calls he can handle because he knows his face will betray more than his voice.

He opens a book on retrograde amnesia Hermione gave to him a few weeks after he had gotten out of the hospital. She had dropped it off one day without Ron in tow, which Harry had thought was a little weird. She usually went everywhere with Ron, at least he didn't tend to see one without the other and that was before they had started dating. He could only recall a handful of times when he had seen her by herself, that time with the book and when she had taken him to the shelter. Other than that, she was pretty much always with Ron. It was both cute and strange.

The oddness only occurs to him, when thinking about everything that Draco has told him. Draco had said the three of them had been inseparable. So why had Hermione decided to do this alone? She had randomly dropped the book off at a time he had definitely not been expecting, and she had--he recalled--seemed breathless as if she were out of time. Was this book a clue? Is she trying to help him?

He flips the book open and his eyes widen when he sees highlighted phrases and notes jotted to the side. This is Hermione's book, her studying on his condition, and the more he turns the pages the more writing is scribbled to the side in her neat, precise hand, so much in fact that there are multiple stickies on a page. There are several pages written front and back slipped in on the chapter about : Recovering Your Memories.

He takes her notes and carefully earmarks the chapter so he can go back and read it later. As he prepares to read it, he wonders why he has never opened the book before. He remembers her telling him, "You should read this when you have the chance, Harry. I really recommend it to you. It'll help you understand what's going on, and maybe--just maybe--you'll get your memories back one day."

He remembers tossing the book to the side, then shelving it later when it got into the way. He hated to look at the book, to be reminded of his failures, and his inability to remember despite how hard he has tried. He had thought it was her blatant reminder for him to try harder, as if she thought he wasn't putting in enough effort. But maybe this book is the key to him remembering, but why--oh why had they never told him the truth? He would think that would work better than any book.

Why do they hide the truth? Why did they hide the truth?

He closes the book and puts it down on the coffee table and then picks up the note. He notices Hermione's handwriting is a bit sloppy and more cramped as he reads further and further into her speculations on how he might retrieve his memory. Like how some medications work and others don't and how he ought to follow the precise directions given to him as prescribed. How he might ask to change prescriptions if one isn't working.

But why would she want him to remember his real memories when they have been feeding him false ones? He does not understand and he cannot fathom how they could do this to him. He wants to be angry, but all he feels is confusion and helplessness. Like what he has been doing to his life--the life that really isn't his. He works at a shelter--when according to Draco--he ought to be doing great things in his life. And yet...

"I meant every word. This place is perfect for you to find yourself," Hermione whispers at the Eastside Children's Shelter, her voice so soft that Ron couldn't possibly hear. Find yourself, perfect for you to find yourself.

But how? But why? But...

-

Some Sundays, when there was absolutely nothing to do, Harry would sit in front of the telly and try to watch whatever programs were on. But they never held his attention, and he didn't know why. For example, football, a sport many Brits were keen on, he did not find particularly fascinating. There had to be a better sport than watching guys running on a field and kicking the ball around. It just seemed boring and stale. But what then was interesting?--he didn't know.

He switched the telly off and slumped against his couch. He was bored as usual.

-

"Harry Potter, this is Albus Dumbledore from Dr. Severus Snape's office," drones the old man's voice. Unlike some Sundays, when he has gone out because it is so boring being cooped up that he has to escape, he is at home. He does not answer because he is afraid it's Ron or Hermione, forgetting entirely that his doctor's assistant always calls at this time. "Please remember that you an appointment tomorrow at 11:00 am. Thank you and please be on time!"

Not that Albus Dumbledore is any better than Ron and Hermione. His Headmaster, Draco had said, so what the hell was he doing posing as Snape's assistant? And why the bloody hell had he even saved Snape? It's obvious, fucking obvious, that they don't like each other. Snape always tries to belittle him at every opportunity, make snide remarks when he can, and Albus is always the one giving Snape a look of reproof. And yet, why does it seem like Snape is being forced? It makes no sense, no sodding sense at all.

God, he wants to scream. How could they?

What makes it worst is that he knows he has to see them. He has to. If he doesn't, they will know something is off, that something is wrong, that things are not as they should be. No one can be suspicious; they cannot know that he knows.

"Don't do anything idiotic and Gryffindorish while I'm gone," Draco snaps. "You can confront them when I'm with you and not more than one or two at time. Or else they might just decide to really get rid of your memories with a strong obliviate, a memory erasing spell, and then where would we be but back at square one?" Draco tilts Harry's head up and stares down into his eyes. "I know they aren't using one now on you, but I'm curious as to why your memories are still gone. I've looked up what you have, amnesia, and it's rare for a person not to remember anything after so many years have gone by. They must be doing something, but what? And if not, if you really lost your memories in defeating Voldemort, then how do we get them back?"

After what Draco has told him, does he even want to remember?

-

"Are you sure I don't know you?" Harry asked this a visit or so before. Last time his doctor had ordered him out of his office without answering him. Harry was hoping that this time, with his assistant Albus there, that Dr. Snape would actually give him an answer. It had been strange to just see his doctor leave that time because it looked like, for a moment, that he was going to say something--whatever it was. "Because..." Harry mumbled, feeling nervous at the way his doctor was studying him, "you seem almost familiar sometimes."

Whatever he was hoping for, it was not for Dr. Snape to explode. Harry saw it coming, it was a small tidal wave, like his doctor was wrestling with how to react. It built up slowly, growing stronger and then exploding unexpectedly at Harry that he nearly fell off the patient's bed.

"Don't you ever say something like that again!" his doctor shouted at him, bearing down on him as if he was a disobedient child that had done something wrong. "I am only your doctor, do you understand me? We have a working relationship and nothing more. I have never met you before, and nor would I! You are an incompetent and stupid child, who deserves everything that has happened to you!"

"How would you know?" Harry asked softly, feeling reckless and brave like his friends said he was. Was this him? "Unless you knew me?"

Albus started to say something, but his doctor waved him off. "Do I need to know you well to discern your faults? I think not. And what your friends tell you, that you're brave and honorable. Do you know what that means? It means you're foolhardy and stupid because they don't care to mention your brains or sensibility. Also, since there is no mention of your competence then you must be highly incompetent."

Harry opened his mouth and then shut it. His doctor was being a right prick, but then Dr. Snape always seemed to behave as if he had something stuck up his arse. What confused Harry were the times when his doctor was different, when he actually seemed almost nice. He wanted to ask why Dr. Snape was behaving like this, being such a bastard but he said instead: "Are you done insulting me?"

-

Monday signals the end of monotony. But today he dreads it. Even Teddy, with his infectious smile, does little to cheer him up. Instead, he wonders if the connection he feels to Teddy means something more than he thought it did. He feels the same sensation he has not until now begun to associate with memories that are deeply buried in him that want to come out. But why Teddy? It makes no sense. According to Draco, he had a charmed childhood, not much different from what his friends had told him. But then, thinking about what Hermione said, how is he supposed to find himself here?

"You know," Becky calls after him, "you don't have to come back unless you want to!"

She says this every time and he always comes back. He wonders if she would be shocked if he decides to take her up on that offer. It's not everyday he has to pretend that everything is fine and that he does not know that Albus Dumbledore is his old Headmaster rather than a doctor's assistant, or that he had once saved his doctor's life even though they hate each other.

He wants the train to be delayed; he wants the walk to never end, but even with these thoughts--he gets there much faster than he wants to. Harry sighs and looks at the door behind which Albus and Snape are waiting. He grits his teeth and reminds himself he will do as Draco suggests and not give anything away, not do anything bloody stupid if he can help it.

He opens the door and steps into the small waiting area and immediately walks to the front desk. What strikes him as odd is to see his doctor behind it, looking very awkward in the small desk area. Harry tries to remember if he has ever seen Dr. Snape there, and he cannot. He only sees Dr. Snape in the patient's room. Not here, not in front of a desk that Albus always sits at.

Something is wrong, something is off.

"Where's Albus?" he blurts out. It's foolish to say that, foolish to want to know because only lies will be told to him. Lies to feed his curiosity and to keep him lost. But staring as he does at this severe man--no, wizard--he wonders how a man whose life he has saved can lie to him. That is hardly the honorable thing to do. "I mean," he stammers, "he's usually here."

"Quite right," his doctor, no--Snape snaps. This man is not his doctor, who this man is as it pertains to his past life he does not know, but to call him a doctor is to keep lying to himself and he won't do that anymore. There has been enough of that already. "But today he is not."

"Why?" Harry curses his mouth, curses his inability to just shut it.

"Because he is sick," Snape retorts. "As normal, regular human beings occasionally get sick and besides, he is old--an old mani--an old man." The man frowns and curls his lips up into a sneer. "Now you will have no buffer between you and me," he states sharply. "No kind elderly assistant to try to soothe the tension between us. I'm sure you must be thrilled."

Do Snape's words--like Hermione's--have hidden meaning? Or is he just making this up to try to justify their behavior, try to lessen the awful secret they have hidden from him? He wants to believe they are helping, and if they aren't, then why? Was it because war was awful? Just hearing Draco talk about it makes his stomach curdle, and he figures that could be a reason--but still not reason enough. Is it worse then? And how much more?

"Are you just going to stand there like a petrified nitwit, or are you going to enter, Potter?" Snape growls, standing by and holding the door open. Harry nods his head quickly and walks into the hallway which leads to the patient rooms. "Follow me," Snape snarls, slamming the door shut and stalking over to the first room. "And do try to hurry up or it will be a lifetime, knowing what a stupid idiot you are, before you get your ridiculous memories back."

Harry takes a deep breath and tells himself to calm down. For whatever reason, Snape is being more vindictive than usual, but he can handle this. He can, he must, he has to. Stay in control, he says to himself, don't lose it. He bites his tongue and tries to smile, but it probably comes out more as a grimace. Not that it would likely make any difference to Snape, as the man doesn't even know how to smile.

"So tell me, Potter," Snape begins, "how have you been feeling recently?"

"The same," Harry answers, trying to keep his emotions checked, "as usual."

"Have you been following my directions to take the medicine with a meal beforehand?" Snape inquires sharply, his dark eyes staring at him with far too much probing. "It is unwise to take it without--"

"And why would it be unwise?" Harry snaps. "Why do you persist in giving me medicine that doesn't--" His hand covers his mouth as he gasps while his eyes narrow into slits. "Or is it not supposed to work?" He can feel his face burning with the anger that he has kept tightly leashed. "Tell me, Dr. Snape, is this medicine that's supposed to make me better all a complete hoax?"

"Why would you think that?" Snape asks, his eyes only seem to get darker.

"Because I've been taking it for three years and I still haven't gotten any better!"

"Well, if you would follow the bloody directions then maybe it would work!"

"Why should I?" Harry shrieks. "When it makes me retch my guts out!"

"That's the fucking point!"

Silence. Not even the soft noise of breathing could be heard. Snape's mouth is closed, pressed so tightly that they've turned into a flat line. Everything about the man screams of tension and repression, as if Snape knows he has gone too far--much like Harry mentally curses himself for almost saying too much. Thank goodness he has not said as much as he could, and yet he has managed to get Snape to admit something, confirm a little that his memory loss is not his fault. That he could not remember anything because they wanted to hide something from him. But then why would Snape want him to throw the medicine up, if the medicine is indeed the source of his amnesia, since he is the doctor prescribing the drug?

"That makes no sense."

Snape licks his lips and steps toward him until he is but an inch away. "Are you remembering, Harry?"

He freezes; Snape has never called him by his given name ever. His green eyes search the dark ones, trying to find anything that might clue him in to why Snape is using Harry instead of Potter. He sees nothing he finds familiar, he can't identify--doesn't recognize--the emotions whirling in Snape's eyes. It's foreign, unfamiliar, and strange.

"Are you?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No."

"You're lying," Snape whispers like a caress. "I can see it in your eyes."

How can someone who hates him read him like that? He is lying, kind of. He knows his past, but he does not remember. A technicality, but true. He has feelings of memories, but he has yet to grasp them. "I don't remember anything."

Snape's hand grabs his chin and lifts it. "But you know more than you are telling. There is this gleam in your green eyes that tells me you know something. You have a secret. What is it?"

Harry tries to jerk his face away from Snape's touch, but only succeeds in backing himself against a wall. "What about the secret you've kept from me?" he cries and wants to yell at himself for doing something idiotic. No one is supposed to know, but now Snape does. "Don't obliviate me," he begs. "Please don't."

Snape laughs hoarsely as if he has forgotten how. "Why would I want to obliviate you?" he inquires softly, darkly. "I want you to remember, but you being the stupid idiot that you are, refuse to listen to my instructions."

He tilts Harry's chin further and lowers his head. Oh God, Harry thinks, it's him.

"Foolish boy," Snape whispers and kisses him. "My foolish Harry."

-

It was dark and he sat rocking back and forth on the bed. He was alone but that wasn't what perturbed him. He had been alone before, he knew that. He often felt like he was isolated and that no one really understood what he was going through. How could they? They had never had their memories ripped from them, had to start their lives over again because of a bloody accident. Nor did they feel like they were living a lie just as he did when he did not feel like the Harry Potter they said he was.

He felt scared when they said he was fearless, weak when they said he was strong, helpless when they said he was capable. It was when they said he was a beacon of light that he wanted more than ever to sink into the darkness of self-grief. He was none of the things they said he was. His friends said he was like a hero to them, so strong, brave, selfless; but he wanted nothing of the sort.

"I want to be normal again," he whispered. "Normal again."

-

TBC