i’m a soldier, wounded so i must
GIVE UP THE FIGHT, THERES NOTHING MORE FOR ME, SO LEAD ME
away . . . or leave me lying here. sound the bugle now, tell them I don’t care.
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The lights were too bright. And the voices were too loud. Too close. A groan sounded somewhere. This produced a dead silence, then it only increased the voices. They were shouting. It hurt. They reverberated in his head, magnified within the tender, confined space. Make it stop. Make it stop. He groaned again and they quieted. The lights were so bright—he couldn’t see anything. A few dark shapes cut across his vision, totally unrecognizable. They were talking again, and it hurt.

He couldn’t move. Or maybe he didn’t remember how. It was so bright.

Slowly Hunter’s eyes opened, groggily, as if he’d been asleep for a very long time—and he had. It had been days since the accident, something he was not aware of. He wasn’t aware of anything, right now, except he lights and the unrelenting noise of unrecognizable conversation. At first, everything was blurry. The dark shapes took on color, but he couldn’t distinguish who they were. Everything was still bright. Somebody moved closer, blocking the light, and his eyes were able to slowly focus. He blinked rapidly to speed up the process. It was a nurse—at least he thought it was. Or a doctor of some sort. She had on medical clothing—but old medical clothing, like the kind he muggles wore in the early World Wars. Why was she here? He blinked a few times.

Then he glanced around the best he could—he still couldn’t move his head. Everything was . . . old. It was all stone and glass and rather medieval. A panic gripped him when he didn’t know where he was. His eyes shot back and forth rapidly, trying to figure out where he was. The plump lady was talking, but he wasn’t aware of what she was saying. Or who she was talking to. Him? He was slowly being gripped by the rising fear that he didn’t know where he was. Or why. And the fact that he couldn’t move wasn’t helping things. The lady was still talking. His head hurt. It was all too much. He blacked out.

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He woke up again some time later. This time it wasn’t quite so much of a shock. It was slower, and it was much darker, the lights softer. He opened his eyes slowly. There was nobody leaning over him, and it was quiet. He lay there for a minute, not as panicked, but still unaware of where he was. His eyes traced the ceiling, and after a few moments he found that with great effort (and some pain), he could turn his head. As he had thought before, he was in a hospital of some sort, though he didn’t know where. It was somewhere peculiar—the entire place was too primitive. Too much stone. He’d been in a real hospital before and it was nothing like this. It was all fluorescents and stainless steel and bleached floors. This was . . . nicer. He shivered. And colder. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lights, and he was able to see a bit more. The bed next to him was occupied by a brown haired freckled girl, whose shirt had come up a bit to expose her tiny waist. He didn’t know who she was, but she was sound asleep, fully clothed, as if she hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

He slowly was able to remember how to move his fingers, then his hands, still a bit baffled that he couldn’t use them in the first place. A dull ache rested in the back of his head, but it wasn’t horrible. He’d been asleep long enough to have his actual physical wounds heal—magic sped up all of that. Of course he had no knowledge of this. And why would he? He hadn’t exactly been conscious through the healing process. The only thing he knew right now was that his head hurt, his mobility was limited, and he was in a hospital. He wanted to know why. Why was he here? Had he hurt himself? How long ago? He couldn’t remember. The slow panic began to creep through him again, starting in his chest and working it’s way up to his brain. He was beginning to realize something—he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember why he was here. He couldn’t remember where here was. He couldn’t remember anything. His mind was a black abyss, completely empty. He didn’t know what the date was. His name. It took him a split second—a split second too long. Hunter. Hunter Devereux. But everything else was blank—entirely and frustratingly blank. He felt like he was sinking—falling. There was nothing. He was nothing.

He cried out, his voice weak, nothing more than a faint whisp that slowly dissolved in the air once it left his dry lips. He was panicking again. It might not have been much, but it had been enough to wake the girl on the bed next to him and send her running off to a lit room down the hall he hadn’t noticed before. For the first time in a very, very long time, Hunter felt fear. Real fear. He didn’t know what was happening—he could be a lab experiment for all he knew. A small group of people was making their way towards him—a young brunette female almost at a jog, rushing ahead of the group. When she got closer she fell to her knees at his bedside, in tears, and reached out and cupped his face. He instinctively tried to pull away, but his movement was limited. She hesitated. Something was not right. Hunter didn’t know this woman. He didn’t know any of these people. He managed to move to the other side of the bed in messy, sluggish movements, but the look on his face was like a cornered animal—scared, desperate. He didn’t know what was going on. The woman spoke, her voice soft, confused.

“Hunter, honey?” She knew his name. The nurse from before had reached his bedside, but had not come any closer. The look on her face told him that something was not right here. She looked—sad. Like something she had dreaded happening had happened. The woman next to him was watching him with a pleading expression—she was expecting something. Or hoping for something. She looked familiar. Like he’d known her in some other life, or in a dream. It had been a good dream. This relaxed him a little, the tension leaving his gaze. There was still fear hidden there, but it had been partially replaced by a reassurance that he wouldn’t be hurt. The strange nurse moved picked up a clipboard and was scribbling things, and as she moved away, a man stepped out from behind her, his lined face aged with a lack of sleep.

“Dad?

He didn’t know how he knew. But he did. It was his father. He could have cried in relief. The woman beside him stifled something between a sob and a cry of relief. His dad, at Hunter’s words, staggered, as if he was fighting falling to his knees. He slowly sat down on the side of his bed.

“Hunter, do you remember your mum?” He looked very serious. Like something was more wrong than Hunter already thought. Hunter slowly turned in the direction his father was looking, to the woman beside him, her face now expectant, but reserved, as if she didn’t dare hope. He stared at her blankly for a few moments, his eyes tracing her features. There was a faint memory. He closed his eyes, trying to think. Mum. Baked cookies. Christmas. Stories. He was slowly able to piece together seemingly random pieces. It hurt to do so, but he couldn’t hurt this woman—his mum. And slowly, like something surfacing in deep water, he remembered. Not much. But enough.

“Mum.” She broke down then, embracing him in a tight hug. The nurse spoke then, matter of fact, interrupting whatever strange reunion Hunter felt he was apart of. He was still, for the most part, confused, tired, in pain, and a bit emotionless.“Well he obviously has suffered head trauma and memory loss. No knowing what the extent is until we observe him over the next couple of days. He obviously doesn’t remember very much. You hit your head pretty hard there, Mr. Devereux.”

Hit his head? He didn’t remember that. Then again, if he had hit his head hard enough, his brain would have repressed the memory. It was expected—he’d learned that in a psychology book his father owned. He knew the science behind it. He remembered these things. He wasn’t sure why he could remember—but he could. He just didn’t know where he was. “Where . . . am I?” He heard himself ask, his voice slightly stronger but still weak sounding. The nurse looked up at him, studying him intently, before answering. She masked any expression concerning his question. “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You go to school here.” It was matter of fact. No beating around the bush.

“Oh. He wasn’t sure he remembered that. Maybe he’d gone to the loony bin. Maybe this was an asylum. Witchcraft? He may not remember everything, but he wasn’t stupid. Then again, this place was quite strange. His confusion seemed enough indication that he was not ready to be re-introduced to magic. As he looked around behind his parents, he realized there were a few more faces—none of which he recognized at all. The brown haired girl was hanging just behind, looking worried and very tired. He didn’t know the others. They looked to be about his age though. Did he know them? Were they . . . his friends? Did he have friends? He couldn’t remember.

A slow frustration began to take root at his inability to remember. Like he had a half finished puzzle and the last pieces were missing. And there was no finding them. He stared blankly at the small group of people, and the nurse seemed to be in no rush to introduce any of them, she was busy scribbling away on the clipboard. His parents were talking quietly to one another, making plans to take him home, he hoped. He just wanted to go home.

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LOCATION: hospital wing, november 2021
THEME: sound the bugle - bryan adams
TEMPLATE CREDIT TO: me
BANNER CREDIT TO: me
NOTES: this is open to hunter's close friends if somebody wants to rp, but nobody has to, just sorta wanted to establish the situation.