Lights. Bright. White.
Summary: After a case she's working goes wrong, Hermione Weasley wakes up in the hospital, her memories gone. Can she relearn the details of her life and fall in love with her husband again?
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I claim any rights to, Harry Potter or any associated themes, characters, places, or plots. This is for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made from this story. Not copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This story was inspired by the trailer for the movie The Vow (which I also do not own). Naturally, I want to see the film, and I liked the story line. I figured why not spin my own tale using my two favorite characters?
CHAPTER ONE: The Hospital
Lights. Bright. White.
The woman's thoughts were unintelligible, and she struggled to form a complete sentence. She tried to open her eyes, but the lights burned and she moaned. As the sound escaped her lips, she heard shuffling coming from… somewhere. She suddenly realized she did not know where she was. Or more importantly, who she was. She moaned again and attempted to open her eyes once more. She blinked twice, trying to focus. She thought she heard a voice, but she ignored it as she concentrated on lights. If only they weren't so bright, she thought. Finally, her eyes began to focus and she looked for the source of the light. She was expecting to see long, florescent light bulbs but found none. She frowned in confusion and then remembered the voice. She moved her own lips, ready to speak.
"Hermione?" The voice interrupted her. It was a man's voice. She momentarily thought it was her father, but the voice was not as gruff and it was much younger sounding. "Hermione…" it repeated, and this time she noticed a sense of worry.
She opened her lips again and tried to form a response, but the words were lost. She only managed a soft groan. She heard shuffling again and tried to turn her head, looking for the man. However, she could not move her neck. Panic rushed through her veins and she blinked her eyes several times, trying to figure out what to do. Why can't I move?
"Somebody!" The man was yelling. She heard a door open. "Somebody get a healer please!" There was urgency in his voice and his tone only increased her panic. Something had to be very wrong if this man sounded so scared. A moment later, the woman heard more shuffling and realized it was the sound of many pairs of feet rushing into the room. There were more voices, shouting out orders to check vitals and temperatures. She tried in vain to move her head, desperately trying to take in the people around her.
"Mr. Weasley," one of the voices reprimanded. "Please, we need room."
Mr. Weasley? Who in the bloody hell was Mr. Weasley? She closed her eyes, trying to think. This name only confused her more and she did the only thing she could do—groan in frustration. She felt herself being poked and prodded in various spots and the voices were whispering weird words she had never heard.
Maybe she was just having a bizarre dream. That has to be it. Just a dream. She tried to reach a hand up to pinch the opposite arm, but someone was holding her hands down. Wake up. Just wake up.
"Vitals are fine," someone was saying. "But she is still in distress." The woman tried moving her arms again, and the person who was holding her tightened their grip.
"Adams, give her the potion." The potion? She made a noise of protest.
"It's okay, Mrs. Weasley. Just have a sip of this." A woman's voice this time, caring and light. She felt two hands on the side of her head as a glass jar was pushed to her lips. She tried to resist. She did not know who this Mrs. Weasley was, and she certainly was not going to drink some kind of potion. However, without the use of her neck and arms, she was powerless. The liquid tingled as it flowed down her throat, and before she could form another thought, everything went black.
When the woman awoke sometime later, it was much easier to open her eyes. The lights were still there, but did not burn against her pupils so harshly. The first thing she tried to do was move her neck, but it was still impossible. Not yet wanting to admit defeat, she wiggled her fingers. Her lips twisted into a small smile and she lifted her arms high into the air. This victory caused her to laugh triumphantly. She brought her fingers to her head, trying to determine what was rending her neck useless. She expected to find a neck brace or some other kind of constraint, but frowned when she felt nothing but skin and hair. Knowing it was impossible, she again tried to turn to the right and then to the left, but her neck remained stiff.
She sighed heavily and placed her arms back by her sides. Okay, she told herself. White lights. White ceiling. I'm in a bed, aren't I? I can't move my neck and there were people here, checking my vitals. A hospital. She was in a hospital. Of course. I must have been in an accident. But, what kind of accident? She felt the muscles in her forehead constrict as she struggled to remember. There was nothing though. Nothing before the memories of waking up the first time in this strange room. Her mind was blank. Aggravated she tried to scream, but the attempt hurt, straining the muscles in her neck. Instead, the noise came out as a croak and the sound startled her.
"It's okay, Mrs. Weasley," one of the voices had told her. They had to have had her confused with someone else. She certainly was not this Mrs. Weasley as they had called her. She was… well, who was she? Hermione, the man had called her. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, she repeated in her head. Somehow, Hermione sounded more familiar than Mrs. Weasley. She closed her eyes tightly, concentrating on the name the man had called her. The white room began to fade, pulling her away.
A girl, maybe three, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders as she ran around the lawn. A man and a woman, holding their arms out for her, laughing. She crashed into their arms and dissolved into a fit of giggles.
The same little girl, older this time, a book lying across her lap. The older woman, the young girl's mother, was turning the pages of the book. The girl's eyes were wide as she listened intently to the tale. The girl squealed in delight when the pages sprung to life, an elaborate castle materializing in front of her. "A castle, for my princess," the woman said, placing a kiss on top of the girl's head.
A school this time. The girl was sitting at her desk, scribbling away at her paper in fury. There were other children around her, laughing, taunting. She did not look up at them, her eyes staying firmly on the paper. The boys were pointing, obviously making the girl the topic of their latest joke. The girl's eyes squeezed shut, concentrating. Her face twisted in anger, only causing the laughs to increase. They knew they were affecting her. The girl stopped writing, and opened her eyes, glaring at the bullies. In the next moment, the classroom's windows shattered and the students screamed, scattering in all directions.
The train station was busy, people rushing by quickly. The girl stood with her parents, a cart resting in front of them. They were standing in front of the brick barrier between platforms nine and ten. They were all glancing at each other quizzically, unsure of what to do. The girl wanted to ask a passerby, but they were all too busy looking at their watches and shoving passed others. She looked to her father for guidance. The man finally nodded, having made his decision, and placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. The trio took off in a run, headed towards the wall.
The woman opened her eyes quickly, not wanting to witness the outcome. Had that girl been her? She certainly looked familiar, as had the older man and woman. She could not be sure. She was not sure of anything at this point. She was especially confused by the last scene, the one where the family had been running towards the barrier. She closed her eyes again, braving the next scene, but none came. She tried to imagine the girl again, starting from the beginning, running in the lawn. Nothing. The little girl was gone. She sighed in defeat.
The door opened, the loud creak pulling her from her thoughts. She heard the feet shuffle slowly across the floor, she knew, headed for her. She tensed, recalling the potion someone had force feed her before. She knew it had knocked her out and she wanted nothing more to do with it. Her eyes were still tightly closed, still desperate to see the girl. But, she felt the presence of the intruder over her and she bravely chanced a peak.
Red. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the bright, red hair of a man. Was this the man who had been by her side when she had awoken the first time. She did not recognize him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing softly. How odd, the woman thought. She did not immediately question why he was standing over her, eyes closed. Instead, she took the opportunity to study the rest of his features.
He was pale, but not overly so. His complexion highlighted the freckles that littered his face. His nose was long and pointed, his lips thin. He was not unattractive, but he certainly was not gorgeous. His red hair was tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it much too often. Her eyes trailed to his neck and she watched his Adam's apple raise and fall as he swallowed. She waited for him to move. He was making her extremely uncomfortable. After all, she still did not understand why she was in the hospital, and she certainly did not appreciate this stranger in her room, hovering over her.
She looked to his face again, because, frankly, she did not have anywhere else to look. She did not have the luxury of turning to find something more interesting, and the man's head was blocking the lights. She would have like to look at the lights again, remembering they were not coming from light bulbs. She had not realized she had been staring at his eyelids until they suddenly flew open and she was startled by the beautiful, blue color. She gasped, his eyes piercing into hers, but instead of feeling fear, she felt a weird sense of comfort.
"Hermione!" The man exclaimed. Perhaps she was this Hermione. A smile broke out on his face, his freckles stretching across his cheeks. "You're awake."
Shocked by his enthusiasm, she merely nodded, agreeing with his simple statement. Very bright, this one, she thought sarcastically.
The man opened and closed his mouth a few times and she thought he was going to fling himself on her. When he did not make a move or speak for several moments, the woman sighed impatiently. Finally, she decided to take matters into her own hands and get straight to the point.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The man's mouth closed quickly, a frown replacing his smile. He took a small step backwards. She saw the sadness invade his features, and for a moment, she felt awful for being so blunt. She shook it off quickly though. It was not her fault he was trying talking to someone he did not know!
"Hermione, it's me, Ron." He said it with such earnest, his voice pleading with her.
"Ron?" she repeated. The man nodded. This was not the clarification she had been hoping for. Again, she asked, "Who are you?"
If possible, his face fell even farther. "It's me, Hermione. Your husband."
Husband? Her head began to spin. Hermione. Ron. Husband. She shut her eyes tightly, willing this strange man to go away. The little girl appeared again, playing with a baby doll. She was giggling softly and the woman tried to hold onto the scene. She could not be married. She was only a little girl. A little girl of only three, playing with her dolls. "It's me, Hermione. Your husband. Husband. Husband. The scene of the little girl began to disappear, replaced with a much older woman. Her hair was identical to the young girl's—the same brown color, the same thick curls. But, this woman did not have a doll in her hands. Instead, she was standing in front of a full length mirror, clothed in a beautiful, lace wedding gown. The young woman in the scene had a wide smile on her face and a shine in her brown eyes.
Married. Husband. Ron.
She opened her eyes, the red-headed man appearing above her. He seemed to have composed himself, a look of concern now evident. He reached his hand out, attempting to stroke her hair.
"NO!" she shrieked, attempting once more to move her head. To her surprise, as well as the man's, her head jerked quickly to the right, away from his fingers. He made a noise and in a second, dashed to the door, calling again for the people.
"Healer Jones," she heard him yell. "Come quickly."
As she heard the footsteps approaching, she felt hot, wet tears flow down her face. She had not realized she was crying.
"Mrs. Weasley," it was the woman's voice again. She did not turn her head again, refusing to address the people who had entered the room.
"Don't call me that," she told the wall harshly. "I have no knowledge of this Mrs. Weasley you speak of."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "Very well." The warm tone had turned cool. "Regardless of what you would like to be called, it is very important you turn your head back into a straight position."
"No, thank you," she replied curtly.
"Miss," a man's voice this time, but not the man who claimed to be her husband. "We must insist. You can either oblige, or we can do this by force."
The man who claimed to be her husband began to protest. "I'll oblige," she began, cutting him off, "when someone tells me what the bloody hell is going on!"
Although she could not witness the exchange the people in her room shared, she knew they were quietly conversing about her. The silence was so tense, she knew she had struck a chord. There was an unspoken argument occurring around her.
"Oh, get on with it, then," the red-head ordered. He did not sound happy, and for some reason, it pleased her.
"There was an accident," the other man started. "A spell gone wrong, we believe. We're not sure if you were targeted, or if this is a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong—"
She cut him off. "A spell?" She turned her head to the left now, to face her audience. They all opened their mouths, she was sure to tell her to stop moving her head. She did not care. "A spell?" she repeated more forcefully.
The men exchanged looks, but did not indulge her further. The second man, she noticed, was dark skinned with short, curly hair. He looked at the other woman. Adams, she thought her name was. He waved her forward as he turned to the red-head man.
"Mr. Weasley," he said quietly. "Can I have a word with you?"
She watched as they stepped away from the bed, towards a corner of the room. The woman approached her, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.
"Miss," she said, "do you not remember anything?"
She looked at this woman, narrowing her eyes. What a stupid question, she thought. But, perhaps it was not so stupid after all. She did not remember, did she? As she carefully shook her head, the woman began to speak, attempting to explain why she had found her way into this room. However, she was not listening, her eyes finding the two men as she struggled to listen in on their conversation.
The dark-skinned man was speaking first, in a rushed whisper. "Mr. Weasley," he addressed. "I'm afraid this is much worse than we originally anticipated."
The red-head, her—her husband, did not immediately respond. She watched his face as it twisted into several different emotions at once—worry, guilt, fear, anger, sadness. "What can we do? She has to remember something. Anything."
"Unfortunately, there is not much that can be done. Even with magic." Magic? Now she knew this must be a dream.
"I—I just don't understand. Yesterday morning she was fine. Fine!" He raised his voice slightly. "We were laughing and joking before I left for work. She had kissed me, telling me to be safe, and she would see me for dinner. How could this have happened? I should have been there!" He seemed to deflate in that moment and the other man put his hand on his companion's shoulder, steading him.
"I'm extremely sorry, Ron," he said, the air of professionalism dissolving. "I wish I had a better answer. You know that." The red-head, Ron, nodded, but appeared unconvinced.
"What happens next?"
"I think it's best if she spends the rest of the night here. We'll continue to monitor her to make sure everything is all right."
"All right?" Ron said, sarcasm in his voice. "Dean, she's not all right!"
"I understand how you feel, Ron, I do. But, if she is okay physically, we have no reason to keep her. We cannot legally keep her here. You'll be able to take her home in the morning."
Ron shook his head but did not say any more. He hung his head in defeat as Dean turned and walked toward the woman again.
"Well, Mrs. Wea—I mean—" He was not quite sure how to address her. "Well, at any rate, I would be correct in assuming that Healer Adams has tried her best to explain to you how and why you found yourself here?" She merely nodded, still not quite hearing what he was saying. She was still hearing his final sentence to the red-head man. You'll be able to take her home in the morning.
Home, she thought. Where exactly was home?
Author's Note: Well, there you have it. This will be a short story, five or six chapters. It will focus on Ron's determination to restore Hermione's memories. And no, they will not be able to do it by magic. And, no, you will not get a large explanation for how Hermione lost her memories. The story will focus on their relationship and nothing more.
Please review and let me know what you think and if you would like me to continue to post.
F.Y.I. For those of you reading my other stories, I will still be updating weekly I Never Knew You, along with this story. Readers of Lost in Love, unfortunately, I am having serious problems with my plot line. I am contemplating taking it down to rework it. Please check my profile page for updates.