Clouded Cognition
A/N: The characters and the Harry Potter universe do not belong to me, obviously.
This is my first tiptoe back into the waters of writing fanfiction (after an 11 year hiatus), so please be kind! That said, I would very much appreciate feedback. Thanks for reading! :)
The smell of orange zest, sweet-spice, and tea leaves broke her daze, and snapped her back to reality. She was not even sure what it was that entranced her, but she must have been sitting there awhile. Perhaps she had fallen asleep, or was simply daydreaming? Her tea had gone entirely cool. She felt strange—woozy, sluggish, disoriented. She couldn't remember what she was doing before sitting down for tea. I must get more sleep. This is just bonkers.
She walked to the bookstore to pick up a bit of light reading, hoping it would distract her from the strange mood she was in.
As she reached her street, a large orange tabby-cat bolted under her feet. "Oh! Watch-it, you silly thing!" Immediately feeling sorry for spouting at the cat, she stooped down to pet him. The silly creature somehow purred and charmed his way into her arms. "Look at you - you raggedy thing. You could use a bath and some food. Come along then, I will take care of you," she sighed in false exasperation.
As the cat (who she decided to name Shankscrook) was lapping up his second saucer of milk, she felt an intense pang of grief. It was silly and irrational, but it felt like she once knew a cat like this (only, with a flat face and much more fur). She somehow knew he was no longer lapping milk out of saucers. He was long dead. She began to weep for this hypothetical cat that only existed in her conscience.
The next day showed no improvement.
She took the train into work like she did every day, but felt like a stranger in her own skin. Everything was routine, yet it all felt foreign.
She was not sure that she had filed her paperwork properly, though she must have done it dozens of times before. After an entire day of researching instructions and rechecking work, she finally headed home.
Clouds loomed overhead as she took the same walk home from the train station as she did every day. She raised her hood to protect her already-frizzed hair from the inevitable. The rain hit the cobblestone around her. The soft pattering made her look up and realize that she was the sole pedestrian of this street. Was it always this lonely? She couldn't remember, though she knew this walk had been her routine for years. Odd.
Upon arriving home, she made herself some tea - the same orange-spiced tea as always. The aroma was comforting and familiar. As she breathed it in, she imagined a warm blanket being thrown upon her shoulders and a gentle hand caressing her back. The thought was soothing, but also sparked a feeling of loss as she realized there was no one there to comfort her. No friends or family. Her parents died in a terrible car accident years ago, but her grief was still in a stage of denial. It felt like a horrible dream that could not possibly be real. She sipped at her tea, thankful for the warmth of the orange-furred creature obnoxiously snoring in her lap.
Friday was the same as every other day, but instead of taking the train home, she felt compelled to take a cab. The cab took her past the shops and tall buildings of London, on to the beautiful countryside of Shorne. She didn't instruct the cabby to turn left when they came upon her street. Instead, she insisted they continue on toward the next town, and the next. They drove for hours until they finally came across a small farm with tall, clover-riddled foothills. The weathered gate was swinging wild in the wind, upon it was a familiar name. The nagging feeling now tugged at her conscience harder than ever.
After watching the cabby drive off, she made her way through the gate and started on the path toward the farmhouse. Every step she took was familiar, though she was certain she had never been to this town before. In fact, she couldn't recall if she had ever been this far outside of Shorne before. She grew up there, only traveling to London for work.
The feeling of familiarity was overwhelming as she passed an old birch tree. Upon one of the branches was a family of red-feathered finches fighting over a meal. The sight of the chicks squawking at each other made her giggle and suddenly feel nostalgic. Her mind drifted into a vision of school-aged children feasting and bickering playfully at long tables in a strange place. The chirping of the finches disturbed her thoughts, thrusting her back to the scenery where she stood. I must be going mental. As she stepped past the pond, she thought she saw a glimpse of a small potato-like creature wandering through the tall grass. It was gone once she adjusted her eyes. I really am going mental.
She could no longer deny that she had been to this place before when she reached the porch steps and instinctively skipped over the hidden loose board on the second step. She turned back to test the splintered wooden step, and sure enough, it shifted under her foot. How could I have possibly known to do that?
A shuffling noise came from inside and voices began to escape through the cracks in the windows. Upon hearing these muddled voices, she froze, rethinking her decision to come here. The dread and anxiety built as she fought the urge to turn around and run. To escape whatever confrontation was about to be had. Alas, she had to know… She had to understand what it was that brought her here. With a gulp, she summoned enough internal bravery to take another step forward. In an instant, an invisible wave of warmth hit her, and an alarm sounded inside of the house. Without even thinking of what she was saying, she whispered to herself, "Intruder Charm." A feeling of confusion and embarrassment came over her. How could she think of such a silly concept, as if such a thing existed? It was just a warm breeze, and she must have triggered some sort of sensor, that is all.
She felt the need to flee. Her body disagreed, boots planting themselves even more firmly onto the splintered wood. As the steps hurried and the door swung open, she had another vision: A small child with bright crimson hair opened that very door to greet her.
Reality hit as a man with shaggy black hair, piercing green eyes, and a scar on his forehead was the one to stand there, gawking at her. Just over his shoulder stood a woman with long red hair (quite similar to the child in her vision). She wore a deep frown upon her face.
"I was afraid this would happen," he sighed. "Come on in, Hermione," the man gestured her into the house. She startled at the sound of her name formed from the lips of a stranger, even if he did feel strangely like a friend. Her hesitation was only momentary, for the woman who had previously been frowning suddenly softened her features. The frizzy-haired brunette followed the two strangers through the doorway and into a sitting room that she was now certain she had been in before. Her eyes scanned the room, noting all the familiar items and decor. Some things were so familiar that she swore she must have owned them at one point. Particularly, a few unusual books that were too far away to read the titles. Something moving in her peripherals caught her attention.
"WHAT IS THAT?! H-How is this even possible?"she cried out in horror as she witnessed two lone knitting needles and a ball of yarn floating mid-air, knitting out a child-sized sweater. The two presences in the room nervously glanced at each other.
"Dear Godric, her memory isn't entirely restored," spoke the dark-haired man. The woman cocked an eyebrow; her concerned frown returned to her face. "I told you I should have done the spell. You're enunciation was horrific," she murmured in his direction. He sighed, then nodded in agreement with a slight shrug.
The woman moved forward, grasping her hand, "Oh, Hermione. This is going to be so very difficult to understand, but please keep an open mind. You're a witch, see? You asked us to Oblivi- well, to wipe your memory, and it seems as though we -" she shot daggers at the man, "-were not successful with the spell. I am so sorry. What all do you remember?"
Hermione only blinked. Unsure of how to answer the question, unsure of what to think, how to feel, or if any of this was even real. The silence shattered as three noisy children stomped into the room. Oblivious to the guest in their home, one of the black-haired boys cried out, "MUMMY! Albus was taunting the gnomes agaaaaiiiin!" The little girl, no older than five years old, chimed in, "It's true. I saw him, Mummy! He was luring them out of the grass with pumpkin pasties, then throwing dungbombs on them. James gave them to him - got them from Uncle George, he did!" Upon adding her last admission, her eyes fluttered up to behold the woman standing before her.
"Aunt 'Mione? ...but I thought…?" she turned to her father, "YOU SAID, you said she was going away, that we wouldn't ever see her again! That's what YOU SAID!" she huffed, tears forming in her emerald-colored eyes.
Hermione wasn't sure why, but this made her grin. The fire in this little girl reminded her of someone, someone she just couldn't place. Her thoughts were interrupted by an eruption from the woman standing beside her. Cheeks flushed almost as red as the hair upon her head as she pointed toward the boys, bellowing, "JAMES, ALBUS, I'll deal with you lot later!" They comically bolted from the room at lightning speed. She then spoke with a much softer voice, "Lily, darling, I'll explain everything later. The adults need to speak right now. Run along and feed the frogs." The little girl wiped her eyes, gave Hermione a sweet smile, and disappeared through the door.
The woman turned to Hermione and repeated her earlier question, "What all do you remember?"
"I… don't know. I've been having these strange feelings, sometimes visions, but they are all so absurd. I thought they were absurd anyway, before I came here."
The man stepped forward, "Good. Right then. Do you remember what they involved?"
She closed her eyes, trying to remember everything she brushed off as silly daydreams. "There was a cat. A big, fluffy, orange cat."
"Crookshanks..." the couple bowed their heads as they spoke the name together. "Anything else?" inquired the dark-haired man.
"Errr - your little girl. I think I remember her."
The woman beamed, "That makes sense. Lily was always drawn to you. Anything... else?"
"Just feelings… Like something wasn't right. Smells reminded me of things I hadn't experienced. I was drawn to this farmhouse," she voiced as she peeked up to witness their reaction to this admission.
"Yes, you spent quite a bit of time here before… before we lost him," choked the woman. Her frown was more slanted than ever and eyes glistened.
"Lost him? Lost wh-" Hermione started, then paused. The desire to console this stranger who she felt so close to was overwhelming. Maybe she should not have come here. Maybe there was a reason why she supposedly asked them to wipe her memory.
"Ron. My brother, your husband... He was murdered," she sobbed, as her husband moved across the room to wrap his arms around her. Hermione's eyes widened as her mind suddenly ripped her from the room she was standing in and took her to another place inside of her mind:
She sat near a crackling fireplace, orange-spiced tea in hand, a tall figure overhead. He knelt down to wrap a blanket around her, rubbing his hand down her back to smooth out the wrinkles. She scanned up the shadowy form to meet his face. Cyan eyes gleamed at her through pumpkin-colored hair. The sight of him sent shivers through her body. She could smell the orange that he had prepared for her tea upon his fingertips.
She admired his face; the soft pink blush to his cheek, the splatter of freckles across his nose, the sweetness in his smile as he pulled her close to him. As she went in to kiss him, she revolted in horror, for in a blink of an eye, his face had gone lifeless. His once-rosy skin was now ghost-white, his lips were dry and parted, and his dull gaze seemed to be frozen in time. She cried out as she blinked again and his face returned to the full-of-love-and-life man that she remembered.
Breaking out of the scene in her mind, she fought for breath. She remembered…
She remembered everything that she strove to forget:
Hogwarts and magic; Voldemort and war; friends and enemies; Crookshanks and house-elves; and most importantly, Ronald Weasley.
"I- I remember."
Harry and Ginny both rushed to her. "Oh, 'Mione," Ginny sobbed as she wrapped her arms around her grieving friend. After a few moments, Hermione burst free from the embrace and howled, "HE KILLED HIM… That despicable clod killed my husband!"
Tears flowed freely from all three sets of eyes. Hermione's suddenly widened, "...and I… I killed him."
After all that had happened... All the bloodshed of war... Their complex childhood... The defeat over the most powerful dark wizard of their time... Ron and Hermione finally had their happy ending. They had a flat in London and steady jobs. Most importantly, they had each other.
Hermione's eyes fluttered as she recalled the horrific day that she lost her husband:
Standing in the elevator with a package of carrots (the last ingredient needed to make pork pie), she realized that she forgot to grab some chocolates for breakfast pancakes. "Oh, Ron will just have to have his fit. I am not going back out."
The elevator doors opened and she stepped into the hall. The polished-red door to her unit was cracked open. This was unusual, as Ron was a bit strict about keeping doors locked. She hurried her steps and rounded the doorway into the flat, eyes scanning the living room and kitchen for any sign of Ron. With no trace of him, she set the bag of carrots on the counter and stepped toward the bedroom, stumbling over a soft, heavy object on the floor. Her eyes trailed down to the object in question. She let out a gasp as they fell upon the immobile, glassy-eyed, orange-furred figure beneath her boots. "No. No, this cannot be happening."
Something told her that Crookshanks did not die of natural causes, she was right to be afraid, and that she needed to find the fiery-haired man she loved before it was too late.
She peeked around the corner to notice that the bedroom door was ajar. Through the crack, she spotted a figure in the dark room. It stood too tall to be her husband. Her heart lurched at the sight of the intruder, and her fear rose as she recognized the tattered fabric hanging from his skeletal frame. The threadbare grey and once-white stripes marked this man before her as an Azkaban inmate, obviously escaped.
The figure stood above a body that lay very still on the floor. Her heart fluttered, hoping and pleading with the universe that it was not her Ron. The man appeared to be reading from a crumpled piece of paper in his hands. He spun and opened the door quickly, locking eyes with the woman on the other side. She recognized him from the battle at Hogwarts; jet-black hair flowing past his shoulders, sharp cheekbones, angry eyes hidden beneath dark-plum circles, a deranged expression that lacked any lucidity: Rodulphus Lestrange.
A small smirk struck his face as he swiftly grabbed for his wand, but he was too late. "STUPEFY-efy-efy-efy," her voice echoed off of the high ceiling. His eyes shot open as the spell hit his chest and forced him back, stumbling over the body behind him. It was then that Hermione was able to get a good look at the form on the floor.
She quickly scanned the body. His cloak looked like the sea as waves of navy-blue fabric covered the floor around him. Her eyes moved from his shiny black shoes, up his long legs, toward his motionless torso. They paused on his parted lips before crossing the pale cheeks and freckled nose, to his grey, lifeless eyes, partially covered by strands of pumpkin-colored hair. "NOOO!" she cried out through tears, as a surprising anger built up underneath the word. She turned to Rodulphus, wanting to spit fire at him. Wanting to destroy him.
The dark wizard raised his wand at her and she ducked, missing a killing spell by mere centimeters. The spells shot through the room like a lightning storm.
Hermione had never felt such a rage. "You FILTH! You SLIME! Why him?"
The man donned a maniacal expression. He shouted back at her over the cracks and pops of the spells being cast, "...because his blowsy mother took my wife from me! EXPULSO!" The blast shot past her, splintering the dresser behind.
Frustration built internally for both spellcasters, both of them fighting for the loss of someone significant.
Hermione chuckled, "Ha! That wretched woman DESERVED death after all that she did. Petrificus totalus!" She huffed as her spell missed by a hair.
The man now growled, "That 'wretched woman' was the key to continuing on with all of our work, our legacy, in the horrible event that the Dark Lord were to perish. That idiot woman had no idea of the damage she caused by killing my wife. She must pay."
With a stiff smirk, Hermione spat, "Remind me to thank Molly on my next visit- PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" This time, the binding spell caught him by the legs. He frantically raised his wand, attempting to spit the words as easily as it had always been for him, "Adava Ke-" he choked as his tongue locked to the roof of his mouth. His mistake was underestimating a muggleborn witch, not even considering that she could perform non-verbal magic.
The flash of the green light that left her wand both terrified and amazed her. Rodulphus gasped, falling to his knees before joining the body on the floor in permanent eternal stasis. As the reality of the events that just occurred hit her like a curse to the chest, she slid down the wall and sobbed.
She sat there staring at the motionless face of her husband for hours before she decided to send word to his family. As she got up, a crinkling noise issued from under her boot. The piece of parchment her husband's murderer had been so intent upon was now in her hands. Upon it, scratches of hardly legible handwriting listed the names of each Weasley. Next to each name were the addresses where they resided. Ron's was crossed out.
Hermione snapped back to her present reality: standing in the Potter's house, her friends gawking at her with worried expressions upon their faces. She looked up at the both of them, eyes streaming with unstoppable tears. Quietly, she pleaded, "I need for you to do it again. Properly, this time." Ginny and Harry nodded in understanding.
"You're sure?" Ginny's voice cracked as she fought back tears, "...because it was so good to see you again. We've missed you so very much."
Hermione chuckled as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, "I imagine that's why Harry half-assed the spell. He knows very well how to do a proper Obliviate, I was the one who taught him!"
Harry gave her a wink, "I wanted to make sure this was really what you wanted. 'Figured you could take a little vacation from the grief, at the very least."
"How clever of you, Harry, but I am certain, just as I was before that I need to forget this. All of it. The war, dark wizards, magic, Ron, everything. Leave no loose ends."
"Alright then. We understand," he voiced gloomily. He scooped her into a tight hug, then stepped back for Ginny to make her goodbyes.
Harry then turned to Ginny, motioning to her wand. She nodded and raised it toward her dear friend, lip quivering, tears streaming. Hermione bowed her head. A single tear trailed the curve of her cheek as the last word she ever heard Ginny Weasley speak rolled through the air, nestling its way into her ears.
"Obliviate."