Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognise. Characters, places, spells – anything from the Harry Potter books are not mine. I am simply a poor student who had an idea that begged to be written!
This idea sprung from what Harry hears when the Dementors get near to him – to me it seemed weird that James didn't last any longer than he did against Voldemort. I imagined him as a powerful wizard, and as he had evaded Voldemort 3 times I thought that he would've been able to at least keep Voldemort occupied for a while. So, here is my story, which is what might have happened to James, but almost certainly didn't. Please read, enjoy and review!
San stared around the island of Rendakadavra. The sandy shores, beautiful mountain ranges, colourful fields and at ease atmosphere meant that the island was easily mistaken to be a paradise. Having lived on Rendakadavra for as long as he could remember, San knew otherwise.
People went to live on Rendakadavra to escape their previous lives. Some left their partners and family homes, some left behind their criminal records – everybody seemed open to each other, yet nobody knew of anyone else's previous life before they became an islander. Only those born on the island were really known by anyone.
Below the laid back atmosphere was the tension. It hung in the air like a heavy cloud and refused, point blank, to budge. Those with previous convictions were scared of being found, those with partners were scared of being found, those with terrible secrets refused to let themselves be found. They were the ones who were always ready to leave at a second's notice. Their worry came from not wanting to leave.
After a while, the easiness with which each day passed and the underlying tension and guilt of the occupants became dull. The island wasn't huge – everyone knew everyone, a few new people arrived each year and a few tired of the island and finally left the supposed paradise.
Sitting on the beach became boring after a while. San had grown tired of the soft sand. Tired of the way that it stuck to everything, tired of the way that it always seemed to be there, tired of the way that it always looked the same. He longed for some pebbles to hurl into the calm sea, he longed to watch the calm sea ripple and splash, and he longed for something different to happen.
He wasn't married, he had no children and he felt as though he had nothing to live for. Every day was the same, every nighttime dream he had was the same and everything seemed to have little or no point at all. Truthfully, though he didn't usually like to admit it to himself, he felt hollow inside as though he was missing something. Sometimes, he jokingly told himself that he was missing flying on a broomstick and that maybe that was the reason why he dreamt about flying every night.
Islanders sometimes imagined that they knew each other. They knew that there was something about San that wasn't quite normal, but could never place their fingers on what exactly it was. The older ones remembered when San had arrived on the island. He had appeared on the beach, seemingly out of nowhere, and apparently hadn't been able to remember anything about his previous life. There had been a lot of speculation and gossip about whether this was actually true, though nobody ever ventured to question San about it. Nobody asked about anyone else's past. They all had something to hide and wanted to leave behind whatever they had been, or whatever had happened to them before they arrived on Rendakadavra. It made the island more peaceful, or, in San's opinion, more dull - incredibly dull.
San was short for Jason, the name that had been given to San by islanders when he had arrived at the island with apparently no memory. He insisted on being called San because he felt it made him more individual. It didn't really. It just felt different to being called Jason, and San wanted change.
Tourists didn't venture to Rendakadavra. The locals were not accommodating to tourists. There were no hotels, chalets, caravans or any temporary accommodation for tourists to stay in. There were no shops in which to buy groceries. Rendakadavra was unwelcoming to temporary residents, mainly because of the anonymity of the islanders. Seeing a familiar face from the past could upset a resident's peaceful life.
New people who ventured to the island, therefore, had to work hard to show that they were not a mere tourist. They built their own places to live, grew their own food and made their own clothes. Part of island life was the constant, yet friendly bartering of excess produce. Those who weren't born to make clothes grew extra food and swapped with those who could stitch with one hand tied behind their back.
San couldn't make clothes. He could grow food easily enough, but his main talent was really something else. As he long for different things to happen, he used scraps and basically anything that he could find, to make 'prank' items. How he was so good at it was a mystery to everyone and was a large factor in why many of them refused to believe that he had lost his memory.
As San was the best, and only maker of prank items, his products were highly valuable. Islanders respected him for his unique talent and the younger ones often begged San to take them on as apprentices. San didn't. Though he longed for variation, he didn't long for company. He liked to daydream and conjure up pictures of his life before he came to Rendakadavra. He imagined himself in different jobs, in different countries, in different families and sometimes he even imagined himself sailing the seven seas. At least being a Pirate bought something different everyday.
After years, fourteen long years stretching to feel more like twenty-eight, San decided that he'd had enough. He wanted to live his daydreams, or at least some of them. He wanted to find people who had known him before, who could help to bring back his absent memory. He wanted to live life to the max.
As he made his leaving plans, he spent time strolling along the beach, thinking of pebbly beaches with fairs, piers and amusement arcades. He remembered his country of origin – England – it was evident from his accent, and knowing that he was English triggered the memories of the country. He remembered the cities and what it was like to live there, he just didn't remember who he had been; he couldn't see where he fitted in.
A new person, a young weedy boy who was forgetful with names, unfortunately for San, seemed to like something about him. Maybe San was what the young lad wanted to be when he grew up – if he ever grew up.
The boy wracked his brains for the name of the prankster who was currently strolling along the beach with his hands in his pockets, kicking up the sand to cause mini whirlwinds. He found the name and congratulated himself. He turned and yelled at the top of his voice.
San span round, quick as a flash, and was about the get seriously pissed off, when his brain seemed to pull him elsewhere. He flopped to the sand and watched what he supposed to be a memory unfold and play like a film inside his head.
Jason stood in a large hallway, hiding behind a suit of armour, rejoicing at the majorly successful prank that he and his friends had just managed to pull. It was hard not to whoop or laugh out loud, but he knew that blowing his cover would instantly take the edge and excitement away from the brilliant prank. He stayed still until the caretaker had passed, checked his map to make sure that nobody was heading his way and pulled the invisibility cloak off of himself. As the summer nights were stiflingly hot, Jason didn't wear the cloak unless absolutely necessary. He and his friends had each completed their own part in the prank at separate times, so Jason was equipped with both the map and cloak.
He stood up, stretched, let out a stray yawn, and decided to head for the kitchens. He turned round and found himself face to face with a stunning redhead. His breath caught in his throat, butterflies replaced the feeling of hunger in his stomach, and his legs felt like jelly. His tongue seemed to become tied and he stuttered intelligibly before deciding to wait for the girl to speak first. Sure he shouldn't have been roaming the corridors at this time of night, but neither should she. There was, therefore, no danger; no way his cover would be blown. He knew that this girl was not a prefect, he knew that she wouldn't want to get into trouble if she didn't need to, but he couldn't quite fathom what had happened to his body.
The girl opened her mouth to speak-
"So, James," Said the young, weedy boy. "Ready to teach me any amazing pranks yet?"
San's voice came back to him. Though he was annoyed with the boy, he was grateful of the triggered memory.
"Sorry, youngun, maybe some other time."
With that, he wrenched himself into a standing position and stalked off in the direction of his house.
And that was how it all started. San's battle with his memory, the battle that went on inside his head and was rarely won. However much effort he put into it, he could never remember just like that. It needed triggering by others.