“Merry Christmas, Professor,” Harry said in a small voice, looking around the beautifully decorated Great Hall in amazement. ‘It’s not only snowing at the ceiling but also around the room, but not a single flake comes down here, and the colourful baubles on the tree are gorgeous,’ he mused.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter,” the Potions Master replied, raising an eyebrow at the polite child.

“Good morning my boy,” the Headmaster greeted him from Snape’s other side. “How good that you’re able to join us for our Christmas breakfast.”

“Good morning, sir,” Harry replied shyly, throwing a terrified look at his plate, which automatically filled itself with a little bit of everything. During the next twenty minutes, he kept himself occupied by pushing his food around the plate, before the dark teacher reprimanded him.

“Stop playing with your food, Mr. Potter. If you don’t want to eat, maybe you should go and see if there are any presents from your doting relatives or friends,” the man sneered, causing Harry to throw him a surprised glance.

“My relatives never give me presents,” he whispered in a hardly audible voice, “and I don’t have friends.”

Before Harry even knew what happened and had a chance to flinch back, a cold slender hand found its way to his forehead. “I believe that you belong into bed, Mr. Potter,” the man declared, turning to his female colleagues. “Poppy, Minerva, the boy is delirious. How could you deem him well enough to...”

The teacher couldn’t finish his sentence as the Headmaster cut in, “I believe you’re right my boy. Could you please gather his presents for him and take him back to the hospital wing.”

The black man threw the Father Christmas like professor an annoyed glare. “I am not a nursemaid, Albus, and I’m sure that Poppy or Minerva will be much more adequate for babying Potter.”

“I don’t need to be babied, Professor,” Harry threw in, slightly indignant. ‘I’m eight and not a baby anymore,’ he thought sadly.

“No Severus,” the Minerva teacher spoke up. “You are the one, whose company Harry chose.”

“Exactly,” the Headmaster agreed. “Please take Harry back to the hospital wing and help him open his presents.”

‘Please,’ Harry thought, hopefully looking up at the man, who let out a long sigh.

“Very well then. Come on Mr. Potter.” He walked by the huge Christmas tree and waved his wand, causing a small pile of presents to settle down on his left arm, before he strode ahead towards the hospital wing with his robes billowing behind him in a remarkable way.

“I’m sorry Professor, to be such a burden,” he told the man in a small voice as he finally caught up with him in front of the hospital wing and quickly opened the door for him since the man was still carrying his presents.

“You’re not a burden, Mr. Potter,” the professor replied in surprise, giving the child a piercing look, before he ordered him back into bed.

Harry complied, glad to be able to lie down, and looked in amazement at the presents the teacher placed on his night table. Snape pulled a chair over, and with a flick of his wand he transfigured the chair into a relaxing armchair and made himself comfortable, knowing that he’d have to spend his time with the boy until Poppy or Minerva came to release him.

“Shall I help you open your presents, Mr. Potter?” he forced himself to ask between gritted teeth.

“No thank you, Professor,” Harry said softly, reaching under his pillow, from where he pulled out Hermione’s letter. “I need your help with something else, sir.” He thrust the letter at the Potions Master, who opened the parchment with obvious disgust, before his eyes widened in horror as he proceeded to read.

“I thought that something was strange about you the whole time since I fetched you from your common room that day,” the teacher said thoughtfully. “Do you have an idea what is wrong with you, Mr. Potter?”

“I think I must have lost memories. I woke up here in my dormitory, wondering where I was, because I was sure I had fallen asleep in my cupboard the evening before.”

“In your cupboard?” the Potions Master queried, raising an eyebrow.

“I live in the cupboard under the stairs, sir,” Harry explained in a small voice, slowly averting his eyes to his bed covers.

“Mr. Potter, this is very important. What exactly do you remember?” Snape asked, slightly alarmed.

“Remember of what?” Harry gave back, looking at the teacher once more. “I remember everything until the day, well, before I woke up here at Hogwarts.”

“What do you remember about Hogwarts?”

“Nothing. The Gray Lady told me that the castle is called Hogwarts and that the Father Christmas like Professor is the Headmaster. I know that the name of the doctor here is Madam Pomfrey, and I know that you teach cooking.”

Snape smirked. “Do I understand it correctly that you don’t remember these things but acquired the knowledge after your memory loss?”

“Yes sir,” Harry gave back in a small voice, feeling incredibly stupid.

“The Headmaster’s name is Professor Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey is a Mediwitch, and I do not teach cooking but Potions,” Severus corrected the child in his soft silky voice. “Mr. Potter, please remain in bed; I will fetch Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, who is your Head of House, and Madam Pomfrey. We’ll have to see what we can do so that you get your memories back.”

“Okay,” Harry replied lazily, already drifting off to sleep, before the professor had even left the room.

When his mind slowly turned back to consciousness, several blurry figures were standing around his bed. He hurriedly reached out for his glasses when a soft voice said soothingly, “Easy Mr. Potter. Here are your glasses.”

Harry felt his glasses being slid over his face and threw the person that turned out to be the black teacher, of whom he still didn’t know the name, a grateful look.

“Harry,” the Headmaster turned to him. “It seems that one of your classmates cast a spell on you that made you lose all your memories of the past year.”

“How old am I?” Harry queried softly, wondering if it was only a year that he was missing.

“You’re eleven, and you are a first year student at Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall replied, causing Harry to gasp.

“Then I’m missing three years, Professors. From what I remember I’m only eight,” he explained, and the four adults groaned at the information.

“Harry,” the Headmaster spoke again. “I’m afraid that we have to do several tests in order to find out, which spell Mr. Malfoy exactly used and if and how we’re able to cancel it. Most of the tests Madam Pomfrey will perform through diagnostic spells; however, it is also necessary that Professor Snape tries to enter your mind in order to clarify the situation. Do you think you’ll be able to endure these tests in your conscious condition, or should we wait until you’re asleep?”

“It’s all right,” Harry replied wearily. “Excuse me, sir, but who is Professor Snape?”

Seeing anxiousness flicker in the boy’s eyes, Severus, who apparently felt pity for the child, replied soothingly, “That’s me, and I promise to be careful, Mr. Potter.”

“Ah all right,” Harry gave back and immediately relaxed.

During the next two hours, Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape cast every thinkable diagnostic spell on the child that could possibly enlighten the amount of damage made by the memory spell. Severus even cast a Legilimens spell on Harry, but he wasn’t able to locate any of the memories from the last three years.

“I’m afraid we have to call a specialist from St. Mungo’s,” Pomfrey finally announced, causing Harry to throw her a frightened look. “Don’t worry, Harry; St. Mungo’s is the magical hospital, and I promise you that we won’t send you there. We’ll ask a Healer, who is a specialist with memory charms and spells, to come and check on you.”

“Kay,” Harry said anxiously.

Pomfrey bustled away, muttering to herself as she stepped to the fireplace in her office to contact the hospital. Ten minutes later, two Healers, an elder man and a younger woman, both of them clothed in white robes, approached Harry’s bed, greeted him in a friendly way, and spent a few minutes talking to him, before they simultaneously began to wave their wands, casting several dozen diagnostic spells.

“I found it,” the older man finally announced and, seeing that everyone was looking at him expectantly, explained, “It’s the Memoria Oblivio Itero spell,” causing Snape to gasp.

Madam Pomfrey put her hand in front of her mouth, while her eyes widened in horror. “Can you estimate a time-frame, Healer McMillan?” she asked in a trembling voice.

The Healer sighed and pensively looked at Harry, before motioned his colleague to cast a specific diagnostic spell. “Two opinions are better than one,” he explained.