The Persistence of Memory

Chapter One - Persistence of the Past

"How was Divination?" Hermione softly asked.

Ron just shrugged listlessly. "The same, I guess."

"What did the old bat say this time?" Hermione asked again, but it was a half hearted attempt to start a conversation.

A year ago, she would have never referred to a professor with any derogatory name except for maybe Snape, but things were different now. Somehow, in the past year, the two had reversed roles. Hermione was the energetic one, constantly speaking to kill silence, and Ron was the brooding workaholic, retreating into corners at every given opportunity. As they walked side by side down the ancient hall, Hermione watched Ron intently for any flicker of emotion, but there was none.

"The same things she always said," Ron murmured distantly.

"Oh."

Hermione chewed her lip worriedly. Ron was unusually withdrawn today, even for him, and he did sit for hours without uttering a word quite often. She knew why, but she dealt with it differently. She couldn’t fall back into the past, it wasn’t like her. She would keep her head high, stand on her feet, and manage on her own. But Ron…

"That bitch had the gloats to talk about Harry!" Ron suddenly hissed.

Hermione jumped at the sudden exclamation. Ron never usually lost his temper like that anymore, but one chance at his face told her otherwise. Ron was flushed as red as his hair, and his shoulders trembled with anger just waiting to lash out.

"‘Oh the martyr,’ she said. ‘The only death suitable for the Boy Who Lived,’" Ron imitated with a squeaky high pitched voice, pretending to wring his hands. "Damn her," he growled, clenching his fists so that his knuckles cracked.

"Ron…"

"She doesn’t even know if he’s dead yet!" Ron shouted, stopping altogether. He grabbed his textbook and flung it to the ground with a dull thud that swept a blanket of dust over their feet. "We all know she has absolutely no Inner Eye… makes it all a big show… and Pansy was there wailing with Lavender. It’s sickening!"

"Weasley!"

Ron straightened, his face a careful stoic mask. Hermione quickly grabbed the book, glancing at her friend uneasily.

"Sorry Professor McGonagall," Hermione muttered, apologetically bowing her head. "We were… uhh…"

"That’s enough Miss Granger. You don’t need to apologize," the transfiguration said, her eyes softening when they reached the two fifth years, standing in the middle of the hall. "Mr. Weasley, don’t yell in the middle of the hallway, and don’t slam your book down. You’re holding up traffic."

Ron didn’t reply.

Minerva sighed softly, and when she spoke again, her tone was gentle. "Go on, you two. You’ll be late for your next class."

"Thank you. Come one, Ron. Come on!" Hermione urged, hauling her friend by the sleeve when he continued to stare.

Ron followed her mechanically, letting himself be dragged. But he abruptly stopped when he passed Minerva.

"You should tell Dumbledore to fire that overgrown bat," he hissed bitterly.

"Ron!"

"She should!" Ron shot back.

Minerva gaped, his words catching her completely by surprise. But she cleared her throat sternly, "Mr. Weasley, that’s no way to speak of a teacher."

"Well, that’s no way for a teacher to speak!" Ron snapped, twisting his wrist away from Hermione angrily. "It was all I could do not to punch her!"

"Mr. Weasley, say another word and you’ll get detention!" Minerva warned, but she was more concerned than angry.

"So? I don’t care!"

"Ron, that’s enough!" Hermione said almost pleadingly.

"You know what she’s been saying the whole period?" Ron nearly shouted, spinning around to face his friend, furiously gesturing with his arms. "Oh, well, Harry probably shot the Avada cheddar at Voldemort at the same time he did and only Harry went up in smoke. Or maybe as he was dying by some vaporizing charm, he so gloriously took Voldemort down with him! God, I want to kill her!"

Hermione took several steps back, paling. Minerva drew s sharp breath, trying to find a way to yell, and punish such severe disobedience, but she just didn’t seem to be able to.

"Weasley, five points from Gryffindor. Go back to your dorm and stay there for the rest of the day," she said. She had meant to sound strict, but the tremor in her words shattered the effect.

Ron fell silent, turning away without another word. But Hermione lagged behind, looking close to tears.

"Professor, I’m so sorry. Ron’s been… today’s just… it’s been exactly a year…" Hermione broke off, scrubbing at her eyes.

"I understand, Miss Granger," Minerva said softly. "I’m sure Potter’s alright."

Hermione sniffled, shoulders trembling slightly. "I hope so."

Sirius paced down the worn trail of the Muggle park, not really caring where his feet took him. It’s been a year since his name was cleared, but wizards of the magical community still tended to be wary of him. Muggles, on the other hand, made no connection between him and the man who appeared on television three years ago. So he spend most of his time with them, wandering through the streets and parks near Little Whinging. He was dimly aware of the warm sun of late spring, seeping through the trees, dabbing the grass with small patches of light. The breeze was mild but icy cold, carrying the distinct tang of wet leaves after a rain shower.

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

He knew something was going to happen that night of the Third Task. He sat in his Animagus form, twitching nervously outside Hagrid’s cabin. Then when the audience erupted in screams, he stopped breathing for a full minute.

Harry was gone, along with that boy. Someone had cast the imperious curse on Krum and stupefied the Veela. The entire tournament was a set up all along.

The cup was a Portkey, and it took them several hours to even track where it took them. By then, it wasn’t even necessary. A small, isolated Muggle town somehow caught fire only a hour after Harry’s disappearance. By the time the ministry arrived, the town was in ashes, not one survivor could be found. But high up on the hill, a graveyard overlooking the scorched marks, they found the other boy. Cedric was lying beside a fallen log, the side of his head ripped and bleeding, completely out cold. When they asked him what happened, he could only say he heard a voice and a flash of green before Harry pushed him aside. That was all he could remember. Nearby, they discovered over fifteen Death Eaters, all stunned or trapped in a body bind, Wormtail among them.

He was free, but that was the last thing on his mind then. Harry was gone, as if he just vanished into thin air. And when he heard Wormtail’s confession, his blood froze cold in his veins.

Voldemort was back.

That was Harry’s death toll. Sirius knew that the snake wouldn’t leave without taking Harry or at least leaving the boy’s dead body. If they were both gone, it could only mean one thing. The week that followed was undoubtedly the worse of his life, probably even worse than the week after James and Lily died and he was in Azkaban. Then, he had something to live for, someone to blame. He had one last person in life that was important, but this time, there was nothing.

Who could he blame? Voldemort? That man got blamed for everything already, it just seemed like some sorry excuse.

It was Sirius’ fault Harry disappeared. It was his fault, he couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t help him. No matter how many times he swore to himself that he couldn’t let anything happen to James and Lily’s son, it never seemed to make a difference.

A week later, a Muggle walking a dog discovered a long, lanky body, so thin that it was just a sack of bones with skin. The man had a flat nose and blood red eyes, and he was dead. Dead.

Voldemort was dead.

Harry’s wand was found beside the body of his arch enemy, scratched and burned at the edges. As for the boy’s whereabouts, no one knew. No one even knew if he was dead or alive. He was just gone.

The world around Sirius crumbled then. He wasn’t even sure how he got through the next few days, even weeks. Even now, he just spent time wandering. The one last shard of hope holding him was that perhaps, just perhaps, Harry was still alive somewhere. And he’d come back one day.

The sound of a child laughing.

It drew Sirius like a light; he glanced up, finally torn from his daze. A boy, probably no more than nine years of age, ran after a dog much to big for him to handle. The leash was lose and dragging on the ground between them, and every now and then, the child would make a frantic grab at it. The dog seemed to be teasing him; it would slow down, dangling the cord inches in front of his small hands, and suddenly dive away again. An older man, obviously the father, followed close behind, shaking his head ruefully but visibly amused.

Sirius smiled wistfully. What wouldn’t he give just to trade places with that man, or that dog for that matter, if the child was only Harry?

"Wake up."

The boy groaned, instinctively burying himself deeper into the covers.

"Rise and shine."

The boy just rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.

"If you don’t get up, James, I’m going to stuff a beetle down your shirt."

"Okay, okay! I’m up!" the boy named James grumbled, his head still hidden by the pillow. He relinquished it only reluctantly, groggily rubbing his emerald eyes. "Go away and let me change for a moment, Will."

William snorted indignantly, "Like there’s any privacy. Go to the bathroom and change. I have to make my bed before the Advisor comes to do a round check."

"Oh no, I forgot about that," James grumbled. "Could you do my bed too? I’ll make yours tomorrow."

Will sighed. "Alright. And do my Biology paper too while you’re at it!"

James nodded, still only half awake and not quite aware of what he agreed to. He slowly oozed off the bed. Scooping up his glasses, he shuffled his feet to the bathroom.

James didn’t particularly like mornings. In fact, he had a horrible habit of staying up in the middle of the night, staring out the window or reading under his covers. It was a rather annoying habit for the other children in the dorm and irritated his advisor to no end, but James found it difficult to break. It was only his first year in the orphanage after all, so they were still rather lenient.

James reached for his toothbrush, ignoring the comb completely. It never made a difference anyway, he mused as he stared into the mirror. His hair always had a windblown appearance, sticking up at every angle imaginable no matter what he did to it. It never grew any longer, and if he tried to trim it, it grew out the exact same length the next day. It was rather strange, and he could never find an explanation for it.

A year ago, James woke up in a hospital with no memory whatsoever of who he was, where he came from, and how he came to be there. He looked ordinary enough, other than the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. When they asked him for his name, James was the first that came to mind. Since then, he was simply ‘James,’ and no one ever called him anything else. It was only assumed that he was around fifteen years old, but beyond that, no one could find any records on him. He had no family, no friends, no relations. He was just a boy that seemingly materialized through thin air.

When James tried to remember anything about his past, there would be a piercing pain in his scar, as if his head was being split open with a hammer. There was a blinding green light, a high pitched laughter, then nothing. Other times, he would remember someone speaking, his own voice, and a golden glow would seep into the corners of his vision. He would have headaches for hours after though, so he just settled on not trying. Besides, it wasn’t like he was unhappy. The orphanage had wonderful teachers, wonderful friends.

"Why are we getting up so early today, Will?" he asked, calling through the door. He choked a bit when he swallowed some toothpaste.

"Field trip," Will grumbled.

James spat out the foam disgustedly, making a face. "Where to?"

"Dunno."

James shrugged, not really caring. It never mattered much. He was satisfied with what he had at the orphanage, but then again, James was never the type to hoard. He was happy.

Sort of.

Once in a while, James would feel that sometime was missing, like an incomplete puzzle, but only for a moment. It was just the memory loss, James decided.

*

Chapter two - persistence of the fate

"They wake us all up at six thirty in the morning just so we can play baseball?" James groused irritably as he picked up a bat.

"It’s not that bad," Will insisted, tossing the ball carelessly. "You’ll get use to it after a while."

James sighed, grinding the edge of his shoe into the dirt. He sat on the bleachers of the central park, not really paying attention to the game. He wasn’t really interested in baseball, but he supposed that was mostly because he was terrible at it. He only learned a year ago when his memory began, and never really had much time to practice. Even so, the only thing he was good at was catcher. When it came to batting or pitching, it was an absolute disaster. But James never really minded, never cared enough to mind. Baseball just seemed so boring. The players were so predictable, the rules so simple. If he had a choice, he would play something more… interactive.

"You know, I had the weirdest dream last night," James suddenly said, eyes following the tracery of the ball.

Will grunted. "You always have the weirdest dreams, James. I swear, you were a nutcase before you lost your memory."

"Do you want to hear it or not?" James asked, mock glaring.

"Of course, I wouldn’t miss it. It’s one of the few things that are interesting nowadays."

James rolled his eyes skyward, but smiling nevertheless. "Okay. Well, in my dream, It was raining really hard. The wind was so strong that it was close to knocking me over," James hesitated. That was the odd things about his dreams. He could actually feel the wind and taste the rain. Every detail was vivid, but when he woke again, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of surreality. "And I was riding on a broom, flying…"

"Oh god, you’ve got to be kidding," Will laughed, shaking his head. "A broom, James? What are you, a witch?"

"I’m not female, if that’s what you’re implying," James grumbled indignantly. "Let me finish, okay? There was a lot of people watching, like it’s some sort of sports event. I was flying on a broom, chasing this thing. It was small and golden, and darted around like some sort of beetle. Then there was this bright lightening that lit up the sky, and I could see a shadow of this big black dog in the bleachers. Then this heavy sort of silence settles over the whole area, like the air was holding its breath. It suddenly becomes really cold, and this mist sort of… wraps around my mind." He stopped talking abruptly, brow furrowing in thought.

"Well?"

James shrugged. "That’s it. That’s all I can remember."

Will sighed dramatically. "I was right, James. You are a nutcase."

It was meant as a joke, but James really didn’t feel like laughing. Will’s words hurt even if they were teasing, and sometimes, James found himself questioning his sanity rather seriously. All his dreams were rather strange.

"Why can’t we just go to those stores in the corner or something?" James muttered, changing the subject purposefully. He glanced at the small corner shops. It was early in the afternoon, and much of the people were still working. Only a few roamed the streets.

Will grunted again. "They don’t trust us enough to let us wander around."

For some reason, that sent a shiver down James’ spine.

"We’re orphans or discarded children, James. No one trusts us," Will whispered bitterly.

James sighed inwardly, looking at his friend sympathetically. He never knew Will’s complete history other than he had lived in the orphanage since five after his parents abandoned him. He was pretty secretive about the rest.

"It’s not bad," James said softly. "The orphanage has nice people, nice teachers. It could be worse."

"It’s not the orphanage that bothers me. It just…" Will drifted into silence, shaking his head. "It’s hard to explain."

James nodded, "I know what you mean. It’s just that you want something more. There’s something missing. But think about it, it could be worse out there. Some relatives are abusive, some children lead miserable lives. It’s a sanctuary here."

Will didn’t reply, eyes unfocused as he stared out at the near deserted street.

Abruptly, he shook his head, lips upturned in a smile. "You’re so naïve, James."

"What? Everyone’s always saying that," James grumbled indignantly.

"Because it’s true! You’re the only one that seems to actually enjoy life at the orphanage. It’s an isolated little cell, and you enjoy it!"

James made a face, punching his friend on the shoulder jokingly. "I find nothing wrong with isolation."

Will grinned, "All these people dream a life of fame, and you absolutely detest any attention whatsoever. I mean, don’t you want to lead a life like those movie stars?" The last remark was rather sarcastic, but the message was clear.

James sighed again, this time out loud. He was different from a lot of the people he knew; he seemed to think on a different track altogether. When they talked about war, he always considered the victims. When they talked about those celebrities, he always considered what those individuals felt about the lack of privacy and normalcy.

"What’s so great about them?" James said, fingering the wood beneath his hand. "I’m sure a lot of them wish they have just a normal, happy life with their families, without all their attention. I’m so it’s annoying with all the rumors and stories about them in the press. I would hate it if I were them."

Will smiled wider and didn’t respond.

"What’s so great about fame?" James asked quietly.

Sirius stirred his coffee distractedly, watching the fluid swirl with the cream as he rested his head against his hand. The liquid had long since become lukewarm, but he didn’t really care. He just came here to kill time after all. Sirius wasn’t sure if he ever drank the coffee that he bought. To any bystander, he would have appeared to be some man who just lost a serious business dealing, the way he sank dejectedly in his chair. But he had lost far more.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Numbly, Sirius glanced up, a bit surprised when Remus’ grayish blue eyes stared back at him intently. He nodded, turning his attention back to his drink as if the world has lost its interest.

"So," Remus cleared his throat when Sirius made no move to speak. "How have you been?"

Sirius grunted.

"Did anything other than sit and stare?"

Sirius grunted again.

Remus frowned slightly, grabbing the cooling paper cup and dragging it away. Sirius stiffened, but didn’t look up.

"Have you been doing anything interesting today?" Remus asked again.

"I was stirring the drink until you took it a few minutes ago," Sirius mumbled, finally turning to face his friend. His pale blue eyes were weary and bloodshot, his face pale and gaunt. He had the appearance of someone who suddenly aged very quickly in a short amount of time.

Remus sighed loudly, "Sirius…"

"I took a walk around the park this morning, if that’s what you want to hear," Sirius said, sounding exasperated.

Remus said nothing, and for a long moment, the two sat in a heavy silence. Remus picked at the fraying paper of the cup, and Sirius twisted the plastic straw between his fingers.

"What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had a class to teach," Sirius asked.

"Dumbledore told me to take the day off."

To see how you’re doing…

Those words were implied and not spoken. But Sirius caught on immediately, and his expression darkened.

"It’s been a year, hasn’t it?" Remus said softly. It wasn’t really a question; both knew what he was talking about.

Sirius nodded, eyes becoming distant again. He bit his lip, the straw limp in his fingers.

"How’s Ron and Hermione?" Sirius finally asked.

"Hermione’s a strong girl; she’s been talking it well," Remus hesitated, then sighed again. "Ron… well… today, he blew up at Minerva."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, but didn’t inquire.

"Something about divination," Remus continued. "Trelawney said some things that she shouldn’t have. Ron didn’t take it too well…"

"About Harry, wasn’t it?" Sirius whispered.

It was Remus’ turn to fall silent this time. For a while, they sat listlessly, listening to the children across the street. They seemed to be playing a Muggle game of some sort that reminded him oddly of Quidditch without brooms and only one beater and one ball.

"Baseball," Sirius muttered when he noticed Remus was watching. "Some kids from a local high school, or something."

"You were watching them?"

"I’ve been sitting here for two hours, Remus. You pick up on a lot of these things."

Remus frowned disapprovingly. "Sirius, I know I’ve told you this before…"

"I don’t need to hear it then," Sirius cut him off harshly.

"Well, you obviously didn’t because you’re not doing anything about it!" Remus raised his voice warningly, eyes narrowed. "It’s been a year already, Padfoot…"

"I know! I can count," Sirius angrily grumbled.

"Albus offered you a position at Hogwarts…"

"… and I turned it down, I know that too."

Remus stood abruptly, making his chair screech against the asphalt. "Sirius, stop doing this to yourself. You’ve wasted your life for the past year, just wandered around aimlessly. You’ve got talents. You’ve got more than half your life ahead of you. Please, you can’t keep doing this!"

Sirius was still as if his words went right through him, his attention solely absorbed in the piece of plastic in his hand.

Remus ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Sirius, you’re my friend, my only friend, and I don’t want to see you… wasting away like this. If Harry was here, he’d never…"

"Harry isn’t!!" Sirius shouted, flinging the maimed object out roughly of the way. A few customers turned their heads, watching the two in confusion. "Harry is not here!"

"Moping around won’t bring him back!!" Remus snapped. "You can’t keep lingering on the past!"

"Harry isn’t here," Sirius repeated, sounding slightly desperate.

"Sirius…!"

Remus’ next words were cut off by high pitched hiss, and something knocked the forgotten drink from his hand. The liquid sprayed into the air, splattering his hair and staining his robes. There was a dull thud of something blunt hitting the floor. Remus glanced at it, a bit caught off guard, barely making out a soaked baseball lying under the table.

Whatever interrupted them shattered the argument altogether, and Sirius returned to the sulking gloom that held him before. Remus glared, trying to decide whether to leave in defeat, or grab the man by the collar and shake some sense into him.

Approaching footsteps caught his attention. Remus glanced up to see a skinny boy, dressed in a simple Muggle uniform of black running towards them. But the boy’s face…

Remus gasped, feeling as if someone had just squeezed his lungs with icy fingers. Remus heart clogged in his throat, and he had to catch onto the edge of the table to keep from falling.

"I’m sorry, sir!" the boy said breathlessly. "That was my fault. I’m very sorry."

*