I write stories. Sometimes. I almost never update ever. Because I write when I want to. Okay. That's it. This is a type of fiction where Hermione is very well liked and loved, because I adore her. If you don't like that sort of thing, be off. I hate seeing the other characters with anyone else. .
When she opened her eyes, she realised one thing immediately. That one thing being, of course, was that she was in a lot of pain. No doubt in her mind. Her whole body ached as if she just ran across the entire British Isles and back in a single day. (Which, by the way, she knew was physically impossible and why would she run anywhere when she could perfectly well apparate?)
After realising she was in pain, she realised that she felt, in an odd way, very refreshed. And then after that, she realised she was in a room she had never been in before. Or that's what it looked like to her. Well, it looked somewhat familiar. Like when you've had a dream and wake up and realise you've had that dream before, sort of familiar. The room was simple, small, and very crowded with a lot of furniture. A small window at the end of the room, which was about eight feet from the bed she was laying on, let in a small bit of sunlight. Which, according to her, meant that it was very early or very late.
The mattress beneath her was sort of lumpy but comfortable. But also, she noticed, it had taken shape to her form. Like as if she had been laying there for a week. Which brought her to another realisation- she didn't remember falling asleep. In fact, she remembered very little if anything in regards as to her where abouts and where she had been. After scanning the small room, (why did it seem so familiar and foreign?), she looked down at her hands. If, indeed, these were her hands. She didn't remembered her hands ever looking so pale and small and weird before. She turned her hand and looked at her palms, then back, and set them on the sheet. These sheets also seemed somewhat familiar. The design...
She furrowed her brow, and would've thought harder if a crash from the doorway hadn't interrupted her thoughts.
"Blimey." She looked up. In the doorway stood someone she felt she ought to know. He blushed furiously, and looked down at what he dropped. Tea and porcelien now littered the floor. "Oi, sorry about that Hermione.. It's just that.. Bloody hell, you're awake."
She quirked an eyebrow and replied, (and realised that her throat was rather dry as well), "I didn't realise someone waking up was a shocking event..er.. Sorry, who are you? And how do you know who I am? And, pray tell, where am I?"
"You don't recognise me." It was definitely more of statement than a question, asked the man in the doorway, sounding crestfallen. He sighed, "You've only been out for about two years; Blimey, hadn't realised I changed so much! Sorry. Ah.. where to star-"
"Wait, wait, wait. Hold the phone," she interrupted in a raspy, rushed voice, "I've been "out for about to years"? What the bloody hell are you playing at?"
"Check the mirror, love," He said pointing at a small hand mirror on an end table next to her bed. She turned, hurridly, and picked it up. And gasped.
She certainly knew it was her, but the way she looked. She looked tired, pale, and yet somewhat eloquent. Certainly not the bushy-haired girl she remembered herself as. Her hair and softened, it seemed (probably magic), into soft ringlets that still massed together. Her face looked, well, to her, it looked lovely. Her eyes were still the wide, brown doe eyes she had before she was "out". She looked older, more mature. "Is this really me? What sort of trickery magic is this?"
"That's you, pet." The stranger replied, taking a seat on a wicker chair she had not bothered to notice before. "Can I speak now, or have you got more questions buzzing in that big head of yours?"
"My head is not-" She huffed, glaring at him.
"I was kidding." He laughed, jovially. It was so familiar. She simply said, "I know you."
"That you do. Hi," he started, "my name is George Weasley. You were best mates with my brother, Ronald, the prat."
"Ron..." She stared off, trying to register the name, only having blue eyes to dance in her mind's eye. "He has blue eyes..."
"Yea, the git." George, or so he claimed, nodded and continued, "So, ye, you're best friends with Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and more recently Defeated-The-Dark-Lord, and my brother. So about tw- Oh, blimey. I should probably go tell everyone you're awake. Uh, wait here."
"Wai-" She started again, but he made a mad dash. The only thing she could hear was his footsteps echoing away from where she lay and then a distinct "OI!", and then lots of footsteps heading her way. She felt nervous. The patter of footsteps became louder, and louder, and then, in the doorway was very many faces.
"OH! Hermione!"
"Herms!"
"I can't believe it-"
"Bless Merlin." And other such things were said as arms were thrown around her. And she didn't recognize most of them. All but one. She knew it. She knew him.
"You're Ron." She said simply, much to the confusion of everyone else bustling around her excitedly. They all stopped and turned to her. Ron blushed and laughed,
"Of course I'm Ron," He smiled, "who else would I be?"
"Oh, I left out a minor detail. Uh.." George laughed nervously, "The poor kid's lost her memory."
"Oh, the poor dear!"
"That's common with those dark curses!"
"It could've been worse."
"Oh yes," and other murmers of shock and agreement were passed about. One woman, somewhat large and friendly with flaming red hair, turned to her and said, "Oh, poor dear! Hermione, whom of us do you recognize?"
"Just Ron." With that, Ron puffed out his chest and grinned. A boy standing next to him, with dark hair and shining green eyes, rolled his eyes and sighed, pushing his thick glasses up off the bridge of his nose. She stared at him. He, too, seemed oh-so-familiar.
"Suppose we ought to explain it all."
And so they did.
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"About two years ago, the Dark Lord was at the second peek of his power. It was dark times, but when isn't it when a raving murderous lunatic is trying to purge the world of those he deems unworthy?
Harry Potter, bless him, and his best friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, were on this mission. (That'd be you lot right before my very eyes). See, the year before their mission, the great Albus Dumbledore was murdered by Severus Snape. ("Traitor!" "Slimey Git!" "Shut up and let mum speak!") But before he was murdered, Albus told Harry Potter of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes. ("Powerful dark magic.." "Yes, I know.") Hocruxes that had You-Know-Who's soul trapped in. Seven, in fact. ("Seven is a powerful number." "Do you ever shut up?" "Sorry!") Albus had taken out one the summer before he was murdered. Another one was destroyed in your second year, Hermione. A locket was destroyed by, ("Molly, she needs a quick summary, not the whole bloody thing-") Alright! So anyway, you three were on your way to destroying them all.
It was because of your cunning, Hermione, that Harry was able to find them all. ("She really is the smartest witch of our time! OW!" "That's what ya get, now pipe down!" "A simple be quiet would do-" "SHUT UP RON") Destroying them, kinda easy. You lot were off on your own. No idea where ya were. Doing your own thing, saving the world- I was so worried about you lot. Especially Ron, he doesn't do that well far from home ("Mum!"). Right, sorry dear. Didn't mean to embarass you.
So you lot find the last Horcrux, I believe it was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's snake, Na..g..Naggy, or something like that. ("Naginia, Molly.") Right, Nagini. Sorry, dear, my memory isn't what it used to be. ("It's okay, Mrs. Weasley.") But you guys found it at the final battle. The last battle. The epic battle.
Right, on the battlefield. Oh, we were all there. We all remember.. Lost my youngest.. Lost my Ginny. Oh, it was a dark day two years ago. Death lurked all around. The sky, lit up like the muggle Fourth of July in the colonies. Curses hurdled back in forth. Hours, it lasted. Hours and the dead piled up on both sides. Madness curses, dark curses. But Harry did it, bless him. Destroyed V-Voldemort for good.
And at the end, no one could find ya, Hermione. Looked high. Looked low. And then, out of the mist, your body silently floated to us. And you looked so odd. And we could hear you. Screaming, panting. Mighty dark curses He-Who-Musn't-Be-Named placed on you before you died. I remember the look in your eyes. Halfway between madness and death you were. And the sounds coming out of your mouth made my blood curl.
We got you to St.Mungo's as fast as possible. Nothing they could do.. eventually, your screams died down. They healed ye as best as they could, and you just. Well, you just went into a coma, you did. And with your parents gone, we took you into our home. Been takin' good care of you. And, well, and that's it." And then Molly Weasley broke into tears, and had to be escorted away.
"How was I just floating towards you all?" She asked, after a very, very long time. Everyone glanced at each other nervously. Then, Fred replied,
"No one knows. You were. Like someone placed a locomotor charm on you. You came out of the mist, like a floating corpse. Except for the fact you were screaming."
"And..Ginny.." She could see everyone visibly stiffen. She saw Harry, or whom she presumed to be Harry, cast a look down, tears in his eyes. "I see."
"Right. Well, it's getting late." Arthur Weasley dictated, pushing red heads out of the room. One of the twins casted a look over his shoulder at her before being shoved into a narrow hallway.
"Do you mind, Mr.Weasley, if Ron and I..?" Harry asked, in a hushed voice. Arthur looked at Harry with a good, long, serious look. Then he sighed, and closed the door.
"Of course, of course."
Hermione was looking down at her hands when she felt someone sit on her bed. She looked up into blue eyes, into green eyes. Softly, almost inaudibly, she said, "Hullo."
"How are you?" Ron asked, looking slightly uncomfortable. She sighed, and shook her head, massive curls bouncing. She casted her eyes towards her hands and said,
"I don't know." An awkward silence suddenly filled the room. To her suprise, she felt strong arms around her. Then another pair, carefully holding her, as if she would break if they held any tighter.
"We thought you would die-" Harry murmered, tears still fresh in his eyes. She felt Ron nod against her bare shoulder. Hermione didn't know what to think. She should know them! They felt so familiar. She should of remembered.. What dark curses had she been under? What dark magic has coursed through her while she was unaware?
"We're so glad you're back, Hermione." Ron muttered, awkwardly. She, without her even realising it, put an arm around each of them, (trying to be as comfortable as possible). "I know you don't really remember us, but trust us, we'll do everything to get your memory back. Swear to Merlin. Or, or, I'll try Fred and George's next experimental candy. Well, after we've tried. Not before. Because I know they're into some really sick-"
"Point is," Harry coughed, interrupting the red head, "we'll get you to remember. Even if it takes a lifetime."
"Thank you.." She found herself saying. She was lucky, she knew. They must of really loved her, to be promising her lifetimes. If only she knew another person had already given her her life back...
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He felt cold, and sweaty. Not uncommon to some, but to him, it was disgusting him. He hated feeling. He hated love, he hated hate, he hated it all. He hated guilt and last moments of chivalry, as if that would redeem him. What was he doing? What had he done? How can he go on? How can he forget?
He found himself tossing and turning in his sheets of silk and velvet, in his king size mahogony bed. He found himself awake constantly, unable to sleep because of nightmares and voices, because of regret and damn brown eyes. Damn blue, twinkling eyes and damn brown doe eyes. He wanted to turn then, he wanted to plead to Dumbledore, 'please give me a good life, please save my family.'
If only he hadn't be so stubborn. If he hadn't been his fathers son. If only, if only, if only. If only he had asked sooner, sought out redemption before it was out of his grasp. And yet, even after the defeat of Voldemort, he found himself not in Azkaban, as he thought he would be with his father, but in his own bed, in his own wing of his own house. And he felt like he should be punished. He felt like he got off to damn easily, and he couldn't find a way to turn himself in.
Because, deep down, he was scared. He was scared of Dementors, of madness..
Of madness. That's what she suffered, and she hadn't done anything wrong. And it was partly his fault. But he did all he could, didn't he? He healed the darkest of her wounds, used the oldest of magic, and rid her of the demon that was clinging to her heart. Out there, among the blood and the death, he had seen her.
And he smirked, until he really saw her. In pain, looking pathetic, covered in blood, and sweat, and mud. 'Perfect for a Mudblood,' he had thought. But, as he turned his back on her, in the dark, in the cold, in the mist that was thicker than thick, he found he couldn't lift his feet. 'Stupid Mudblood..'
As he laid there, reflecting on that night he healed Hermione Granger in her darkest hour, he felt the edges of his mouth twitch. Not in a smile, but in a frown. Why hadn't he seen her to the end? Made sure to wherever he sent her too, someone found her? If he was going Knight, why not finish the job?
Because, he stood on the battlefield, in a mask of a skull, with a dark tattoo burned into his forearm. He remembered his dark cloak being covered in her blood as she spat it out of her little Mudblood mouth. He held her and muttered anti-charms and realised, he had seen this dark magic only once before. And the only way to get rid of it, was to in fact, take it on to yourself. And he had. He had done this for her, and he didn't know why.
He just knew. He knew she was good and pure, and everything he envied. And that his heart had been destroyed long ago, so that this magic would be useless on him. And then he sent her off.
Draco Lucius Malfoy had done good. And he wanted to cry because of it.
"Are you okay.." He asked his ceiling softly, laying on his back, covered in sweat, moonlight lighting the dark room only slightly, "Did they take good care of you? Are you awake? Did you know it was me? Do you hate me? I sure do.."
He frowned, and furrowed his brow, turned on his side, and squeezed his eyes shut. 'Just make it all go away,' he screamed mentally, 'Please, I beg of you. Someone, anyone, please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I truly, deeply am.'
He opened his eyes and it was daylight. He frowned again, rolled out of bed and sighed. He didn't even realise he fell asleep. And so he stood, he sauntered (as Malfoys do) into his private bathroom and shut the door. And he vomited, cleaned himself up, took a cold, five minute shower, dressed, and headed to the Dining Hall. And so his day went on. As he sat down, ordering his usualy breakfast from an old-looking house elf, a clear, cool voice called out,
"Still heading to Diagon Alley this weekend, darling?" His mother appeared at the end of the hall, dressed in pale amber silk dress robes, looking esquisite, but very tired. He nodded curtly. She took a seat, and sighed, "Draco."
"Yes, Mother?" Draco asked, not bothering to look at her and now eating his eggs, chewing slowly and somehow regally.
"You've been mooning. Is something the matter, pet?" She inquired, picking up a newspaper and reading it. Ever since Lucius had died, Draco felt that his mother becoming cold and distant with everyone, except him, of course. When Lucius was alive, Narcissa Malfoy threw grand, glorious balls, where she would dress in fancy silk dress robes, invite over everyone she knew, and made chitchat. When she laughed, it sounded like tinkling, like money. And she would float about, smiling, showing off perfect white teeth behind full, red lips. Draco used to hate those balls, but somehow, now that they never happened, he missed them. Like he missed his father's great lectures on how to perfect the world. A world of 'Pure Magic', he described. Ideally, it was like Communism. But reality had already shown us how that turns out.
"Draco, my boy, my son," Lucius would say, "When the world is Pure Magic, we could do magic in front of Muggles and they would see us as superior, and we'd be able to do what we like, when we like. Wouldn't that be smashing?"
And, to Draco, that really did sound like a brilliant idea. And as much, at times, that he hated and resented his father, he did miss him. If only even a little bit.
He sighed, and pushed his food around on his plate, when his mother asked, rather abruptly, "It's not a girl is it?"
And just then, Draco went as red as a Weasley and sputtered out he had other things to attend to, and that he loved her, and would see her later.
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George Weasley felt privilaged. He was the first one to see her awake, and with that, he knew he could pick at Ickle Ronnikans' ego. The red headed twin smirked, and placed his hands behind his head, crossed his legs and lounged on his bed. He felt satisifed. But, at the same time, he thought of Ginny. He tried, and tried, and tried harder to not think of his bratty little sister. How she died.. died valiantly, too. He frowned, and shook his head. It did not to well to dwell on depressing matters.
"Oh brother of mine," a voice, much like his and not at all like his, called. He turned his eyes to his twin brother, Fred as he held out his hand. "If you would kindly join me in some mischief.."
"What have you got in mind?" George asked, taking Fred's hand as he hoisted himself up. Fred grinned, as Fred does, in an evil sort of sense and said very quickly,
"I think it's high time we lighten everyone's mood with a "Glad you're up Hermione" type of shindig. You game?" Fred asked, his blue eyes twinkling. George smirked yet again and replied,
"You know I'm always savvy." In reality, the only way to tell George and Fred apart is if you look at both of their right eyes. Fred's right eye has specks of green mixed in with blue, while George had flecks of gray. Other than that, there isn't a way to tell them apart. If they were to wear sunglasses, we'd all be screwed. "So, what's cookin' good lookin'?"
"Here's how it will go down..."
And ten minutes later, and after much rejoicing, the plan perfected, George and Fred high-fived each other, shook each other's hand, and nodded to themselves. Then they patted each other on the back and said, "Good show, mate" and "Yes, a very good show indeed", they headed down to lunch.
And how lunch was an affair. Apparently the twin's plan went something along these lines;
Mrs. Weasley had been cooking all day for a perfect picnic lunch, had set up a glorious picnic-themed lunch in the backyard, where Hermione was currently sitting in between Harry and Ron, eating sandwiches. Fred and George had the idea, that since Hermione was wearing a sundress and would be standing up at any minute, it would be a good idea for a "gust" of wind to blow said sundress up, Marilyn-Monroe-Seven-Year-Itch style, then set off fireworks that would startle everyone and watch them run into each other, embarassed and flushed. And, just for good measure, tie Hermione to Ron and Harry by their ankles, so when they tried to run off, watch them fall down on top of one another. Maybe if Ron or Harry where lucky, they'd get a "feelsy" (as Fred put it). Yes, that would certainly lighten everyone's moods, and any chance to see a girl's knickers, even if it was Hermione, is good according to Fred.
In the end, after much embarassment, cold glares, huffing, food everywhere, Fred and George found themselves organizing the Weasley Attic of Useless Junk without wands, in alphabetical order. Thinking that they were too old to be punished, and after trying to sneak off, they then found themselves having to clean all bathrooms in the Weasley household.
"Maybe it wasn't such a good idea," commented Fred as he found one of Aunt Maude's old Gnome-Throwing trophies and proceeded to dust it off. "Last time we come for lunch, eh bro?"
"Yea.." George agreed, in deep thought. He reflected on the way Hermione looked when she first set her eyes on him, startled, puzzled, and beautiful. He also thought of the glee in Ron's eyes when he announced she awoke. But then, there was also the sour look, well the one he thought he saw, in Harry's eyes. But why would Harry be sour that Hermione awoke.. unless..
"Yo, bro, look what I found," Fred interrupted his train of thought, waving a photo album about with "OUR WEDDING/BABY PICTURES" slapped across the cover in large, gold letters. "Bet we can use this later to our advantage."
George grinned, "Genius. Really brilliant."
He went back to his box, his thoughts back on Hermione, oh and of Ron and Harry as well. And, for as much as he knew he should be feeling like it, he didn't feel guilty for thinking of the pretty, memory-lost, brunette. He was a warm-blooded male, after all. And after his relationship with Katie Bell ended, girls didn't really hold his attention very long. They all just laughed at his jokes, and deep down, that disturbed him. Who was he? Just some half of a troublesome duo, the good-looking twin prankster, who could only come up with practical jokes and cheap parlour tricks? He shook his head, barely listening to Fred babble on about one thing or another.
As much as he loved his twin, and loved being a twin, he often wondered if that he was something more. Was that all anyone saw him as? He frowned, and sighed, causing dust to irritate his nose. He sneezed.
"Bless you," came a girls voice. Startled, George and Fred simultaneously dropped whatever they were holding. "Oh, goodness! I didn't mean to startle you. I just came up to tell you, your mum said you could come down for dinner if you promise to behave. 'Which they probably won't', she added."
"Oi, thanks Hermy," Fred called, gleeful to get off punishment. "Hadn't realised it was that late. What'd she cook? I'm starved."
She laughed, a soft laugh that caused both twins to smile and feel their hearts beat faster, "Oh, just some steak and potatos. Go get cleaned up, and I'll tell her you're coming down."
"Thanks..."
"And, by the way, if you ever try one of your pranks on me, that involves showing my knickers to the entire world, I'll hex you into oblivion, " Hermione smiled sweetly, and shut the door.
"Foxy, fiery little thing, isn't she?" Fred laughed. George only nodded dumbly. Feiry, and foxy indeed.