Three Days Gone
Monday, comes too soon. Regulus nearly sleeps through his alarm, the shrill ringing barely piercing through the exhaustion weighing him down. He groans, pressing his face into the pillow, every inch of his body begging him to stay in bed. The thought of going to class today feels unbearable. He doesn’t want to. He wants to be at the hospital, wants to be by James’s side. But...
His stomach twists. He has an exam.
Cursing under his breath, he forces himself up, dragging his aching limbs to the bathroom. The shower is quick, barely enough to wash away the exhaustion clinging to his skin. He dresses on autopilot, pulling on whatever is clean without much thought. His eyes flick to his phone on the nightstand, but he doesn’t check it. There’s no time. He’s already late.
By the time he rushes out the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, his mind is a blur. His car is still at the hospital, so he takes the bus, staring blankly out the window, barely registering the world passing by. He’ll go straight to the hospital after school. He just has to get through today first.
...
Euphemia sat quietly by James's bedside, her knitting needles clicking softly together. She had found comfort in the rhythmic motion, though her mind was far from focused on the project in front of her.
The door creaked open, and the doctor entered, his face professional but warm. He glanced around the room, scanning the various machines that monitored James's vitals. His eyes lingered on the empty chair where Regulus had been sitting before, and without missing a beat, he turned toward Euphemia.
"Where's the man with the black hair and pale blue eyes?" the doctor asked, his voice casual but curious.
Euphemia, knitting needles still in her lap, looked up, confusion furrowing her brow. “Regulus?”
The doctor paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Yes, that’s him," he said, as if it should have been obvious.
Euphemia opened her mouth to respond, but before she could answer, they both heard a soft groan from the bed. She turned, heart pounding, to find James’s eyes fluttering open.
He let out a low groan, stirring slightly. Euphemia’s breath caught in her throat. James was waking up.
James slowly woke up, the pressure in his head making everything feel muffled and heavy. It was as if someone had clamped his skull in a vice, squeezing tighter with each pulse of pain. His body felt weighed down, as though the very act of breathing was an effort. He tried to lift his arm, to reach for his glasses on the bedside table, but the table wasn’t there, or maybe he just couldn’t find it. His fingers grazed over empty air, a sensation that made his heart race.
His vision was blurry, everything around him distorted. He opened his eyes wider, trying to focus, but it was all a haze. The first thing he saw was the figure of his mother, standing near his bed, her outline faint and blurred.
"James," she said, her voice soft, distant, as though miles away.
"Mom?" he croaked, struggling to speak. But the pain in his head made everything feel so heavy, like his words couldn’t escape properly.
She called his name again, but then there was something else, a sharp, blinding light. It was too much, piercing through his skull, making everything worse. He winced and instinctively tried to shield his eyes, but his arms felt like they were filled with lead.
"Please, turn off the light," James pleaded, his voice weak. He couldn’t stand the brightness, the pressure, the chaos in his head.
He heard a choked sob, then saw the blurry outline of a man standing near his mother. The figure was unclear, but he thought the man was the one holding the light in front of his eyes.
"Can you tell me your name?" the man asked.
James swallowed against the dryness in his throat, his head pounding with every small movement. “James… Fleamont Potter,” he rasped out.
The man nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Can you squeeze my finger?”
James did as he was told, his fingers weak but responsive around the stranger's hand.
Turning to Euphemia, the man gave her a reassuring nod. “He’s conscious.”
James barely registered the words before another wave of pain crashed through his skull. He let out a small groan, his eyes squeezing shut. His mother’s voice broke through the haze, full of concern.
“James, sweetheart, how are you feeling?”
“My head is killing me,” he mumbled, every word like a hammer against his skull.
The strange man didn’t hesitate. “We’ll get some pain medication administered,” he said, pressing a button on the wall. Within moments, a nurse arrived. "Give him a dose of Gabapentin through the IV."
The man instructed.
James watched, still dazed, as the nurse moved to his bedside. It wasn’t until she reached for his arm that he noticed the IV access taped to his skin. His brow furrowed as confusion settled deep in his bones. His gaze trailed from the IV line to the sterile white walls, the monitors beeping softly beside him.
He was in a hospital. That man was probably a doctor.
The realization sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull, as if his brain was protesting against the effort of understanding.
The doctor must have noticed his expression. “You’ll feel better in a second,” he assured him. “Then we can talk.”
James barely nodded, his thoughts too sluggish to process anything beyond the pain.
His mother’s voice cut through the fog again. “I need to call your father,” she said, brushing her fingers lightly over his hand. “I’ll be right outside.”
Before James could say anything, she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone.
Silence settled over him, thick and unfamiliar. The walls felt too white, the machines too loud. He was alone in a hospital bed, his mind a hazy mess, and for the first time since waking up he felt truly lost.
...
The next twenty minutes were agonizing. James kept his eyes shut, his breathing slow and deliberate, trying to will away the pounding in his skull. Every second felt stretched, the pain an unbearable weight pressing against his temples.
Finally, gradually, the sharp edges dulled. The medication seeped into his system, numbing the worst of it. He could still feel the ache lingering beneath the surface, but at least now he could breathe without wanting to claw at his own head.
A voice pulled him from the haze.
“James?”
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. His vision remained stubbornly blurred, and he could only make out a familiar silhouette leaning over him. As she stepped closer, the blur sharpened into his mother’s face.
Euphemia brushed a hand over his hair, her touch light, soothing. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
James wet his dry lips, swallowing past the lingering discomfort. “Better,” he admitted hoarsely, then frowned as another thought settled in. “Where are my glasses?”
He felt half-blind without them. Everything past his mother was a vague smear of color and shapes, frustratingly indistinct.
“We’ll get you knew ones, don't worry.” Euphemia promised gently.
Before James could say more, the sound of footsteps drew his attention. A moment later, the doctor from earlier stepped into view. James could barely make out his features, but as he stepped closer, the man came into focus, a tall, plain-looking man with dark blond hair. Nothing about him was particularly memorable, and James didn’t think he had ever seen him before.
“Mr. Potter,” the doctor greeted him in a neutral tone, glancing briefly at his chart before looking back at James. “Now that the medication has helped with the pain, I need to run some tests.”
James blinked sluggishly. “What kind of tests?”
The doctor hesitated, then said carefully, “We need to assess the extent of the damage before discussing anything further.”
James’s stomach clenched. The wording unsettled him.
“Damage?” His voice came out sharp despite his exhaustion.
The doctor remained composed. “I understand you have a lot of questions, but let’s take this one step at a time. Can you agree to let me run the tests first?”
James hesitated, glancing at his mother, whose face was lined with quiet worry. His own unease deepened, but he nodded slowly.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get it over with.”
James swallows against the dryness in his throat. The room feels too bright, the air too thick, pressing against his skin. There’s an odd weight in his chest, a dull ache in his limbs, like his body is moving through water.
“Do you know where you are?” the doctor asks.
James blinks sluggishly, trying to push through the haze clouding his mind. “A… hospital.” His voice is rough, strained, like it’s been unused for too long.
“That’s good,” the doctor says, his tone measured. “Now, I’m going to say three words: apple, chair, and blue. Can you repeat them back to me?”
James furrows his brow, his mind grasping at the words. “Apple… chair… blue.”
The doctor nods approvingly. “Now, touch your nose with your finger.”
James lifts a trembling hand and does as he’s told. The doctor tells him to do it again with the other hand this time and James does it, even though he's not sure why.
The doctor presses a cool hand against his knee. “Can you feel that?”
James flinches slightly at the contact but nods. “Yeah.”
“Good. Move the toes on your left foot.”
It takes a moment for the command to register, but James wiggles his toes.
“And now your right.”
Another small movement. The doctor watches him carefully, then after a pause, says, “Can you recall the three words I gave you earlier?”
James doesn’t even have to think. “Apple, chair, blue.
There’s another nod, another note scribbled down. James exhales, his frustration curling hot in his chest. “What the hell is going on?”
The doctor sets the clipboard aside. “I’m just evaluating your condition. So far, you appear to be in good shape, no major issues.”
Good shape.
The words barely have time to settle before his gaze catches on his hands.
James’s breath hitches.
Bandages. Wrapped around both hands. Thick, white, and foreign against his skin.
His fingers twitch, but the movement sends a dull sting up his arms. His stomach twists.
“What happened?”
The doctor doesn’t react to the sharp edge in his tone. “You got some cuts from when the windshield of your car broke.”
Car. Windshield.
James’s pulse spikes. Something is wrong. Something isn’t adding up.
“What do you mean?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
His mother inhales sharply beside him. When she speaks, her voice is careful, like she’s walking on fragile glass. “Sweetheart… you were in a car accident.”
The world tilts.
James’s chest constricts. His breath feels shallow, the hospital room suddenly too small.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” she says.
Three days.
The words echo in his skull, rattling around like loose change. His fingers curl into the sheets.
That can’t be right.
His body aches, but time feels… wrong. Warped. Like he’s missing something vital.
“What day is it?” The question feels heavy, like it takes effort to push past his lips.
The doctor watches him closely. “James, can you tell me the last thing you remember?”
James shuts his eyes. His mind is a blur, empty and disjointed. He tries to force through the fog, to grasp at something solid, something real.
Then he sees it.
Laughter. The scent of flowers. Sirius grinning, tie slightly askew. Remus, rolling his eyes but smiling softly.
James inhales sharply, his eyes snapping open.
“A wedding,” he murmurs. “Padfoot and Moony’s wedding.”
The doctor hesitates, exchanging a glance with Euphemia.
“You might be experiencing some confusion—”
“No,” Euphemia interrupts gently. “Those are his best friends’ nicknames.”
James barely hears her. The pounding in his skull is back. The air feels heavy again.
Three days.
He grips the sheets, trying to steady himself, but the ground beneath him feels like it’s shifting. Like the world he woke up to isn’t quite the one he left.
The doctor presses on, his questions persistent, probing. “What do you remember about the wedding, James?”
James’s mind stirs, the details sharp, though hazy around the edges. He blinks, trying to focus, and he feels it, the warm, easy chatter, the feeling of shrimp between his fingers. It’s almost like watching a movie from the back of his mind.
He inhales slowly. “I remember... the laughter. I ate shrimp. My parents were there. My mom... she was wearing a blue dress.”
Euphemia’s face softens, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “That’s right, sweetheart. I was wearing a blue dress.”
James nods, the scene clearer now. His hands twitch under the sheets as he imagines the table, the faces of people who belong there. "Wormtail was there too," he says, the name slipping easily off his tongue.
The doctor glances over at Euphemia, who nods. “He’s right.”
The doctor seems to take a mental note before asking, “Do you recognize the faces of anyone else there?”
James furrows his brow, scanning his thoughts like a photo album. He pauses, searching for more. He doesn’t need to think too hard about the rest. He can’t be bothered. “Peter’s plus one? She was a blonde girl.”
Euphemia chuckles softly. “That’s right.”
The doctor doesn’t seem bothered by the casual observation. He’s focused. “When was this wedding?”
“A week ago,” Euphemia answers quietly, her voice tender.
James feels the weight of time in her words. A week. His mind skips over the days, like there’s something he should have experienced, but the memory is too far gone to reach.
The doctor’s voice cuts through his thoughts again. “Can you remember anything else after the wedding?”
James tries, focusing, straining for any other detail. But it’s like reaching for something just out of reach, slipping between his fingers. He sighs and shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”
The feeling that time has passed is undeniable, but it doesn’t quite make sense. He’s missing something, something important, and he doesn’t know what it is.
“That’s not too bad,” the doctor reassures, but there’s a slight tightness in his voice. “Losing a week of memories isn’t uncommon, especially after trauma.”
James is about to complain when the doctor asks again, “Anything else you can recall from the wedding?”
“No,” James says, his voice hollow.
Euphemia seems to think for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly. “James, do you remember anyone else at the table with you?”
He blinks, frowning. His head is starting to feel heavy again. He pushes through the fog, the weight of it pressing down on him. He tries to summon the faces, the names.
But nothing comes.
He looks at his mother, a soft, silent question in his gaze. She’s watching him closely, as if she’s waiting for him to pull something from the depths of his memory.
“I... I don’t know,” he says, the uncertainty creeping into his voice.
She presses further. “Are you sure?”
His pulse quickens, and he feels a tightness in his chest. He closes his eyes, focusing hard. His head hurts again, a sharp pang behind his eyes. His body tenses as he tries to summon something, anything.
Then, as though a flicker of a memory ignites, he blurts, “There was a man.”
Euphemia’s face softens, but her eyes widen. “What man, sweetheart?”
James furrows his brow, trying to place the man’s face. It’s there, somewhere, but it’s unclear, like trying to see through fog. He can’t make out his features.
“I... I don’t know his face.” He presses his hand against his temple, the ache growing.
“The man, does he have a name?” Euphemia urges, her voice trembling slightly.
James stares at her, confusion swirling. “He must have a name.”
Euphemia’s voice is softer now, filled with a kind of pleading, but James doesn’t understand it. “Do you remember his name?”
“No,” James says, frustration and irritation flaring in his chest. “Why would I?”
She hesitates, pressing on. “Are you sure?”
The headache hits him hard, sharp and violent. He presses his hands to his temples, fingers digging into the flesh, but it doesn’t help. The pressure builds, and he wants to scream, to beg for it to stop.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained.
“It does,” Euphemia says urgently, her tone almost frantic. “You need to remember.”
James shakes his head, pushing back against the fog that clings to his thoughts. The pressure in his skull is unbearable now, and the images won’t come together. He can’t make the man’s face clear.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, pain rising in his throat.
“James,” his mother presses. “Have you seen this man before? Do you recognize him?”
Her questions barrage him, but it only makes the spinning in his head worse. His body trembles with the effort to think, and the frustration surges, sending a wave of nausea through him.
“I don’t know,” he gasps. “I can’t remember.” His hands curl into fists, and he groans in frustration. “Stop,” he pleads, his voice raw. “My head is killing me.”
The doctor places a hand on the edge of James's bed, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve done enough for today, James. Don’t try to push yourself to remember anything more right now.” He turns to Euphemia. “I’ll administer more medication to help him relax. He needs to rest.”
James can’t even process the words. He just nods, grateful for the quiet. The pressure in his head isn’t letting up, but at least, for now, the relentless questions will stop.
...
James stabs his spoon into the wobbly green Jello, watching it tremble on the plastic tray. The sickly artificial color only makes his appetite worse, but it’s the only thing remotely tolerable after forcing down the bland excuse for lunch. He barely has time to glare at it before the door opens.
Two figures step inside: Sirius and Remus.
The first thing James notices is Sirius’s eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, like he’s been crying. He barely has time to process it before Sirius is on him, arms tight around his shoulders, holding on like James might disappear if he let go. The familiar scent of cigarettes and leather clings to him, grounding James in a way nothing else has since he woke up.
Then it’s Remus’s turn. His hug is just as tight but steadier, more measured, as if he’s trying to hold everything together for them. When they finally pull away, James catches Sirius rubbing at his face like it’ll erase the evidence of his tears.
His gaze lands, for the first time, on the teddy bear in the corner, tied to a ridiculous “It’s a Boy!” balloon. James raises an eyebrow, pointing at it. “Let me guess, yours, Sirius?”
Sirius sniffs. “It was Remus.”
James chuckles. “Well played, Moony. I’ve got to admit, waking up to my own gender reveal wasn’t exactly on my bingo card, but hey, at least that mystery’s solved.”
Laughter breaks some of the tension in the room, but James can still feel the weight of something unspoken hanging between them. Sirius hesitates, then finally asks, “How are you feeling?”
James exhales sharply. “As good as I can be, considering I was in a car accident.” He rolls his shoulders, grimacing at the dull ache in his muscles. “Head hurts when I try to think too hard, everything’s sore, and of course, I can’t remember a damn thing about the accident itself.”
Sirius and Remus exchange a glance. It’s quick, but James catches it, the way they’re silently saying something he isn’t privy to. His stomach tightens.
He looks at them warily. “What?”
James knows when he's being lied to.
The way Sirius and Remus look at each other before answering, the way their words feel too careful, too measured, it sets his nerves on edge. He might have lost a week of memories, but he hasn’t lost his instincts. Something is wrong.
“What?” James asks, his voice sharper than he intends. “Just say it.”
Remus exhales, running a hand through his hair. “How much do you remember?”
James frowns. The answer should be simple, but the longer he thinks, the more uncertain he feels. “Everything. Up until about a week ago.”
Sirius forces a smile, but James can see the tension in his jaw. "Okay, so let’s test that," he says, trying to sound casual. “And what are you studying I mean in college?”
James rolls his eyes. “History, obviously.”
Something shifts in the room. It’s small, but James catches it. Sirius stiffens, and Remus glances at him like he’s confirming something.
Remus clears his throat. “Right. And where do you live?”
James blinks. “At home, with my parents.”
The pause is longer this time. His stomach twists.
“Prongs,” Sirius says carefully, “when’s the last time you remember living there?”
James opens his mouth, then stops.
His mind moves quickly, searching, grasping for a timeline that should be right there. But there’s nothing. Just the vague certainty that home is where it’s always been.
A slow, creeping unease settles over him. “I—I don’t know. I just assumed I still do.”
Sirius nods, too serious now. Like he expected that answer. James hates it.
Remus leans in slightly. “Do you remember… anyone important in your life?”
James huffs. “What kind of question is that? Yeah, obviously. You two, my parents, Peter, Lily—”
“Anyone else?” Remus presses, his voice too even.
James’ skin prickles. “What are you getting at?”
Sirius forces a laugh, but it’s hollow. “Nothing, just making sure we’re all on the same page.”
James doesn’t believe him. His head is starting to ache again, a dull, squeezing pressure. He rubs his temple, frustration rising.
“I don’t remember the accident,” he says slowly, “and apparently, I don’t remember a week of my life. But you two are being weird, what aren’t you telling me?”
Sirius looks like he wants to say something, but Remus shoots him a look, sharp and warning.
“It’s nothing,” Remus says smoothly. “We just wanted to check where your memory stops.”
James exhales, his grip tightening on the thin hospital blanket.
They’re lying.
He doesn’t know why, but he knows they are. And whatever it is, it’s big.
...
The conversation stretches on, and with each question, James feels the gaps in his mind widening. It’s like walking through a house he’s lived in forever, only to find half the doors locked and entire rooms missing.
Sirius and Remus tread carefully, asking about random moments from their past, but James can hear the hesitation in their voices, like they’re afraid of what he’ll say.
He answers as best he can.
He remembers Sirius and Remus getting married. But when Sirius brings up their senior trip to Paris, James frowns, his mind drawing a blank.
“We went to Paris?”
Sirius' eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, yeah? After graduation? The four of us."
James shakes his head, confused. “I… don’t remember that.”
Remus watches him carefully. “You remember graduating, though?”
“Yeah, of course.” James grips the blanket, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. “And I remember starting college. But I swear, I don’t remember a trip.”
Sirius glances at Remus. “Okay. No big deal.”
James isn’t so sure.
They keep talking, and the more they do, the more James realizes how much of his life is just… gone.
He remembers he's in college but still thinks he’s an undergrad. He remembers playing piano, but not a single game of soccer from high school, even though he knows he was on the team. He remembers Sirius has a younger brother, but when Sirius subtly tries to get him to say the name, James comes up empty.
And he doesn’t know why, but that unsettles him more than anything.
"Do you think you ever met him?" Sirius asks, too casually.
James rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t think so? I mean, I feel like I should, but…” He trails off, the words sticking in his throat. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
Sirius nods, but his jaw is tight, and James doesn’t miss the way his fingers drum anxiously against his knee.
Something is wrong.
James doesn’t know what, and his head is already starting to ache again from trying to figure it out. But he can feel it, something important has slipped through the cracks of his mind.
And Sirius and Remus know exactly what it is.
By the time Sirius and Remus are done with their questioning, James feels wrung out, like his mind has been stretched too thin. His head aches, his body feels heavy, and there’s a deep exhaustion settling into his bones. He barely has the energy to say goodbye as they leave, the door clicking shut behind them.
As soon as he’s alone, he exhales a shaky breath and sinks back into the pillows. The silence of the hospital room feels louder now, pressing in on him, filling the spaces left empty in his mind.
Something is missing.
But trying to grasp at it feels like reaching into fog, no matter how hard he tries, the answers slip right through his fingers.
Frustration bubbles up, but it’s quickly overpowered by exhaustion. His eyelids grow heavier, and before he can dwell on it any longer, sleep pulls him under.
This time, there are no dreams.
Just darkness.