Lumos

Chapter Three: "Suaviter"

Hermione

January, 2003

Hermione sat with her feet dangling off the Mungo's cot. The scratchy robes they'd dressed her in were a horrid shade of salmon pink. At least she was still wearing what she could presume were her own socks. She must've switched brands at some point, because the familiar red stitching that she was accustomed to around the toe and heel was a muted grey instead.

The healer checked her reflexes, making notations on his pad. No one mentioned the elephant in the room. The fact that they wanted her to go home with a man that she had no rhyme or reason to be with.

She struggled to keep her breathing even at the thought.

George was doubtlessly sitting in the corridor where they'd banished him after she asked them to. Having him close to her felt...wrong. Guilt worked its way to the forefront of her conscience, and she fiddled with the hem of her shirt to distract herself.

No one had let Ron in to see her, yet, even though he was the only one she wanted to see right now.

She blinked up at the ceiling, recalling the horrible moment that the realization had sunken in.

"Why are you here, George?" Hermione asked.

He looked back up at her, his shoulders tight, and his mouth a thin line.

"You-you don't remember, do you?" His words were hesitant, quiet.

Hermione shook her head, dread filling her.

Something shattered behind his eyes. He seemed lost for a moment, and then his gaze dropped. His arms, though braced against her cot, trembled the slightest bit. His mouth opened and closed as he took a short breath.

"I'm sorry—I—" he said, his hands twisting together. "This is probably a lot, then," he whispered.

Hermione nodded, mouth dry. "Where's Ron?" she asked, knowing that it probably wasn't the right thing to say, but needing to ask despite it. "They said they'd send him in."

"Ron's not your husband, Hermione," George said, voice catching on her name. His shoulders rose and fell with his breath. He met her eyes. His meaning hit her, and she reeled away from him.

"No," she said, the word escaping before she could pull it back. George's hands dropped from the cot.

He was speaking, probably an explanation of some sort. It poured over her, but none of it sank in past the rushing static of her panic. She called for the healers, and they hurried in.

"Please, I need to be alone—" she gasped. The healers pulled a very confused and distraught George from the room.

Even after he'd gone, the sick feeling in her stomach wouldn't fade.

How had things gone so monumentally wrong? Had she lost her mind at some point along the way? George? George Weasley? Not Ron? Thinking of her best friend summoned another wave of hurt and longing. It seemed beyond cruel that after everything, she didn't get to choose her life partner. Yet another normal life experience that had been taken from her and twisted beyond repair.

She took another sip from her cup of orange juice.

"We're prepared to release you." Healer Marcus's voice cut through her fog. Hermione let out a short, disbelieving huff. She was in no state to go home. Wherever that was. She raised her head and appraised the man. He clicked his pen. A muggle pen. "Hermione, look," he said, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees. "I know this seems impossible, but in some cases, living one's daily life is what sparks the return of memories. We, erm, can't say whether that will be the case for you, but we can cautiously recommend that you give your brain every opportunity to recover. That includes going home and trying to get back into the swing of things."