Harry Potter does not belong to me in any way, shape, or form...
It was a morning, just as similar to every other morning these past few years. The alarm clock uttered its faithful buzzzz at precisely 5:20 in the morning. A slender arm quickly relinquished itself from a massive paisley navy comforter to shut off the insistent sound.
The tiny bedroom quieted in an instant.
The arm hovered for a moment, its fingers lingering on the 'off' button, before quickly jutting back beneath the safety of the blanket. A pair of brown eyes peaked above the blankets, straining against the neon aqua of the alarm clock, peering at the current time through sand-crusted eyelids. Acknowledging the current time without argue, she slowly closed her eyes in defeat, and before removing her covers and choosing to begin her day, the young woman let a single thought escape her mind:
'I hate my life.'
The woman thought this same thought every blessed morning for the past eight years. It wasn't as if she truly hated her life….
…She hated what she had become.
She had become a routine, an emotionless shell. She was good at what she did, no question about it. Those that came in contact with her asking for her advice were quite pleased and heeded her suggestions. But though she was excellent at her profession, the woman was not happy. She was hardly fulfilled, feeling as though she was missing something in her life. Something that she yearned for, but dare not speak of. But it was that routine: that same routine for the past eight years that kept her going…that kept her alive.
Every morning she would wake up, cursing the beginning of a new day, and would settle in the same routine that she had established for herself for the past eight years.
The routine worked well for her. Like clockwork, she would wake up, shower, brush her teeth, dress, eat a spot of breakfast and drink a single cup of plain tea, and would head out the door. She would watch no television in the morning, avoid the radio at all costs, and would only skim the first page of the local newspaper that arrived at her doorstep every morning.
She would greet no neighbors as she left her home for the day. After all, the woman's tiny home was amongst few in the area, and she gathered that although her town was quite unpopulated, most people in their right state of mind were not up at 5:50 in the morning when she left for work.
The woman drove a short distance to work, reveling in the silence that surrounded her in her vehicle. She was never, ever late, and more often than not parked in the same secluded parking space that she was fond of.
The woman got out of her vehicle, closed the drivers' side door with a soft thud, opened the door to the back seat and reached in to grab her white coat and tawny brown bag – a bag that she had kept for many, many years. As the woman reached for the bag, she took a moment to regard its tattered handle and shabby exterior. She had thought about throwing it away countless times before, but she just couldn't bring herself to do so.
…After all, it was one of her last remaining pieces of her past memories.
Of those memories.
Memories of family and friends. Memories of gatherings, feasts, celebrations. And memories of pain, loss and so much heartache…
Thinking of the bag sent a wave of emotion over the young woman, and she silently cursed herself for thinking such thoughts. She had parted with those memories so long ago – how dare they surface and interrupt her thoughts.
The woman's dark brown, low-heeled clogs padded softly on the asphalt below. The morning fog still blanketed the surrounding land and softly clouded the building in front of the young woman. She stepped carefully, purposefully towards her place of work, counting the number of steps it took her to reach the front door.
She walked passed a few other cars, walked in silence towards the front entrance of the building, passing the dark wooden sign with off-yellow lettering reading 'Saint Lucy Community Hospital.' She disliked the shabby-looking sign, and wished that in some small way it were livelier; more inviting. Even if she spoke up, no one would listen to her suggestion. The sign would eventually stay like that for the next twenty years, until the damned thing fell apart completely, warranting a completely new sign. The young woman thought it best to keep her mouth shut, and let the course run as it may.
She walked in the front entrance of the hospital, through the automatic glass doors, passing a small triage area on her left, and waving to two nurses who were each sitting on stools in one of the rooms. Both nurses received the wave, and each smiled warmly, greeting the young woman. The young woman said nothing, offering a small pathetic smile in return and continued towards the elevator, carrying about her business.
Pushing the number '3', the elevator creaked and groaned ever so slightly as it climbed towards the third floor of the hospital. The young woman took a minute to look around at her surroundings. A piece of paper was taped haphazardly to one of the walls within the elevator.
'Tuesday's Cafeteria special: Chicken and dumplings with a side of string beans.'
'Well, thank God for that,' the woman sarcastically thought to herself. After all, it was Thursday, not Tuesday. And seeing the words 'chicken' and 'dumplings' in the same sentence this early in the morning made her stomach just ever so queasy.
The elevator doors opened slowly, the right one moving faster than the left, and the woman sighed and exited the lift onto the third floor. She inhaled deeply and scrunched up her nose. It smelled like lemon and roses. And alcohol pads. All mixed in one.
'How the hell is that even possible?' the young woman silently asked herself as she shook her head.
But it was no matter. There were always strange smells in the hospital. Smells that were the same, and some that were different. And some that you never, ever wanted to smell again in your life. But such was the vocation that the young woman chose. And along with her choice of work, came the multitude of unwelcomed smells.
She passed a stand-up sign with the words 'Family Practice,' written in big bold plastic lettering, complete with the young woman's name on it. On this particular morning, she didn't even bother to look at the sign. Truth be told, she rarely looks at it anymore. Why should she? She knew who she was, knew why she was there, knew what she had to do. And anyway, her nameplate was missing a single letter at the end of her last name. She vaguely remembered seeing a toddler picking up the piece of plastic and teething on the letter 'R' earlier this week. Perhaps he took it home with him as a parting gift.
Marie, the Family Practice secretary on the third floor, scurried out from behind her desk and greeted the young woman head-on. She was in her late 30's, but still felt the need to refer to the young woman as 'dear' or 'honey.' The young woman let it go – it was useless to refute the names, and plus, a part of her missed hearing someone refer to her as 'dear.'
Marie had a worried look upon her face, as her heavily shadowed blue eyes looked up towards the woman in worry.
'Oh I'm so glad you're here!' said Marie.
'Well, where the hell else would I be at 6 in the morning? Shopping?' the young woman thought to herself.
Marie continued to speak.
'It's Jack, dear. He…he doesn't look to well. I found him in a right state this morning – throwing up, crying. Thought you 'ought to have a look at him just to be sure. I know that stomach flu has been goin' around, and well…he's just five and all…didn't want him to get too sick, know what I mean dear? I put him in exam room four for now – told him you'd be here soon to take a look at 'em,' she said, not pausing for a breath while speaking to the young woman.
The young woman offered a tight smile and a nod. Passing Marie, she headed off towards exam room four, and opened the slightly ajar door.
Poor Jack was awfully pale. He had a cream colored waste bucket propped next to him, most likely courtesy of his doting mother. Jack looked at the woman with the white coat slung over her arm, and stared at her figure.
The woman placed her coat and sack on a yellow plastic chair next to Jack and peered down at the little boy. Looking at him with soft brown eyes, she inched forward a little to speak to him.
'What seems to be the problem, Jack?' she said in a quiet voice.
Jack stared up at her with an open mouth. In one split second, his eyes bulged slightly and he jerked his open mouth towards the floor, missing the bucket completely, and instead covering the young woman's shoes with various amounts of stomach contents.
…The perfect start, to a perfect morning.
And it was then, that for the second time that morning, Dr. Hermione Granger thought to herself:
'I hate my life.'