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It’s been a year since Mary’s accident, one she can’t even remember—a year since her memories of her life besides basic details (a vague memory of her parents, some basic knowledge, and her name) were simply gone.
She doesn’t even remember her mother’s name. She knows she’s a lesbian, but can’t remember anyone she’s dated, if she has, that is.
It’s Christmas, and she can’t remember anyone who might’ve been her friend. She’s alone in the world, in her tiny flat in London. She has a red jumper, her favorite, that gives her a sense of déjà vu every time she wears it. She’s wearing it today. It doesn’t quite fit right, like it’s someone else’s, but whose she doesn’t know.
She got herself a box of chocolates and got the day off from her coffee shop job, thankfully. It’s barely enough to keep her afloat, but she’s managing.
Before opening her Christmas gift for herself, and the one she got from the hospital, she looks at the framed photo on her otherwise bare walls.
It’s a picture of a party in a room she vaguely recognizes, her and a red-haired girl close together, the girl’s arm around Mary’s shoulders. Mary’s kissing her cheek. In the background, there’s a man (?) with long black hair being fed what she assumes is alcohol by a tall and gangly scarred man with biscuit-colored hair. Beside them in the foreground, is a girl with a blonde, shaggy haircut and a girl with intricate cornrows with beads braided into her coily hair, all done up in a bun.
The caption reads in marker, “L+M 1978!! Party with the girls, marauders, & Cas’ friends. Can’t find James & Reg.” She doesn’t know who any of the people are, but they’re all vaguely familiar. 1978 was four years ago, her last year of school.
Mary assumes the “L” is for the girl she was dating, the redhead in the photo. She doesn’t know who Cas, or James, or Reg are. Not anymore, at least.
This thought sullens her mood, and she’s close to tears. Why can’t she remember any of them? She wonders if L still wonders where she went— but she can’t find any traces of her past life anywhere. Not that she’d have a place to start anyway.
She can’t remember, and it’s driving her insane, slowly but surely.
Catapulting her out of her thoughts, her mint green rotary telephone starts to ring, the one she has right under her photo.
Who had her number? This ought to be interesting. She gets up, walking over to it and picking it up, the cord stretching.
“This is Mary Macdonald speaking,” She says into the receiver.
“..Mary?” The voice is familiar, but she can’t quite place it.
“Who is this?” She asks.
“Remus?” She doesn’t know who it is. Who is this?
“I don’t know a Remus, wrong number, maybe?” She starts to put it down.
“WAIT, WAIT!” She sighs, putting it back up to her ear.
“I.. Merry Christmas, Mary.”
“…Thank you? Merry Christmas to you, Remus.”
—
Mary’s starting to get her life back. Not the one she had, but a new one nonetheless. She has a few close friends, she’s been on some dates, but nothing has really filled the gaping hole in her chest that screams at her that something’s missing. It’s 1988, six years since she lost all her memories. She can’t believe it’s been so long.
Every year, like clockwork, she gets a call from this “Remus” man, on Christmas. He never says who he is, but as the years go on, he sounds increasingly lonely and sad. She sort of feels bad for him.
It’s Christmas again, and she’s staring at the redhead in the photo. She wonders how she’s doing, if she has kids, if she’s still waiting for Mary.
Her phone rings. She picks it up.
“Hello?” She asks.
“Hey, Mary.” The sense of déjà vu hits her, like always when she hears his voice.
“Hi,”
“..Merry Christmas,”
“Who are you?” She asks.
“..You really don’t remember?”
“No.”
“..Oh. I, uh, have to go. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Remus.” She sighs as the line disconnects. Why doesn’t she know who he is?
—
It’s 1995 now. She keeps getting these calls from Remus. She hopes he leaves her alone, but some small part of her that remembers her past life when she can’t, wishes he called more often.
It’s Christmas again, and she’s going to a party with her friends in a few hours. She’s getting ready when she hears it, her telephone ringing.
She rushes over to pick it up, heels clicking against the floor.
“Remus?”
“Hey, Mary.” He sounds.. alive for once. “I have someone who wants to talk to you,”
“Oh? Who?”
“..Sirius?” The name sounds vaguely familiar, and she looks to the picture above her telephone for guidance. It doesn’t help.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Oh. Well.. let me get him, hold on.” Silence. She waits for a couple minutes.
Faintly, she hears a door open and can pick up a string of conversation between Remus and this Sirius guy.
“She really doesn’t remember?”
“No, nothing. I think she obliviated herself around the time she vanished.” Obliviated? What does that mean?
Remus gets back on the line. “Hey Mary, we’re here. Passing you over to Sirius,”
Another vaguely familiar voice comes in on the phone. “Mary?”
“..Hi? Who are you?”
“..I’m Sirius.” He sounds sad, almost nostalgic.
“Oh.”
“We just wanted to say Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you.” She hangs up. She couldn’t take a breakdown before the party. She pushes the thought of them to the back of her mind, and continues getting ready.
—
It’s 1996. He’s calling again.
“Hi, Remus.”
“Hey, Mary.” His voice sounds hollow, like the light in it has been extinguished.
“Where’s Sirius?”
With that, he breaks. He sobs into the phone, and Mary silently curses herself for asking. She feels bad.
“.. Merry Christmas, Mary.” He chokes out.
“Merry Christmas, Remus. I’m sorry for your loss.” He hangs up. She feels vaguely sad for him, still not completely sure why.
—
It’s 1998, and she doesn’t have anything planned for today. It’s Christmas again, and she’s waiting for Remus’ call.
She waits, and it’s noon, then three, then six, and it’s nine and he hasn’t called yet. She stays up all night, waiting for him. He never calls.
Somehow, Mary knows. She can feel it. Somehow, Mary knows everyone in that photo is dead except for her, and now Remus is too.
She’s the last one.
A name floats to the surface of her mind. Lily.
Oh, Lily. That’s her name. The girl she’s hopelessly devoted to.
She remembers something, suddenly. Lily walked down the aisle in a wedding dress, looking oh so lovely. Mary wanted to cherish her forever, but she was standing to the side. She wasn’t wearing a groom’s suit or another wedding dress. She was wearing a silky pink dress, matching with the other bridesmaids.
Lily walks down the aisle to a man in a suit with curly hair, golden-tan skin, and slightly askew glasses. She laughs, love in her eyes, and fixes his glasses. He grins dopily, and Mary feels her heart shatter.
She can’t watch, so she looks out to the audience as they say their vows. In the back, she sees a man. Sharp cheekbones, ice-gray eyes, and a halo of black curls framing his pale face. He’s beautiful, and a tear slides down his cheek.
He pries his gaze away from the marrying couple, and looks up. He meets Mary’s eyes, and a current of understanding bonds them. She’s crying too, not from happiness that some people might think. She thinks her and Regulus could’ve been good friends in another life. Jilted lovers, together.
She comes back, and knows that the red jumper is Lily’s, and she hates James.
She hates him so, so much.
She wonders if Lily is happy with him. She wonders if she bore his kids.
Mary cries, because she still can’t remember anything about the love of her life. Not even the last name she’d sworn she’d take.