Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, that's all J.K. What you see here is simply derivative, non-commercial fanfiction.

Author's Note: Post-Hogwarts. Not canon compliant – just how I like it. Constructive criticism welcome. Happy reading.

Thanks for the Memories

Hermione marches into the waiting room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital. It's empty but for a tired-looking young woman slumped in an orange plastic chair in a far corner. She doesn't look up when Hermione stops beside her, not even when she gently clears her throat, too lost in whatever scene is playing behind unblinking eyes to notice someone else in the room.

This is the first time Hermione's clapped eyes on the woman, and she's not usually one to make off the cuff diagnoses without first performing a thorough exam, but this one is displaying all the classic symptoms of acute guilt: far off stare, nails bit to the quick, a bouncing leg, and fingers hopelessly twisted together. It's Hermione's most encountered ailment, accompanying nearly ever patient she treats, and usually brought on by the over-zealous casting of a spell. Treatment consists of a few reassuring words delivered in a bracing manner, followed by a metaphorical pat on the head. Most symptoms clear up after one dose.

Hermione doubts this one will be any different.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Wilkins?" she says, brushing her fingers across the other woman's shoulder.

The hazy gaze sharpens with a jolt of surprise and Mrs. Wilkins, suddenly animated, springs to her feet. She takes a quick step toward Hermione, hands wringing with worry, her eyes probing Hermione's expression for any hint about her husband's condition. She swallows audibly, part dread, part pleading, when she says, "Yes, that's me. Please, how – how is he?"

Hermione summons her most calming smile and gestures for Mrs. Wilkins to sit. "Your husband is doing very well, Mrs. Wilkins," she says, using the nonchalantly confident tone she's found best suited to soothing frazzled nerves, and she's pleased to see Mrs. Wilkins sag with relief. "He's a bit woozy, of course, but that's completely normal considering. The spell didn't do any permanent damage, and the best thing now is for you to take him home and put him straight to bed. Don't worry if he sleeps straight through until tomorrow evening, that's just his brain recovering from the shock. Now, if he's out for more than two days, or if you notice severe memory problems after he wakes up, then we'll want you to bring him back in. But," she continues hurriedly, when Mrs. Wilkins goes pale, "all signs point to your husband making a full recovery. Minus a particular memory, of course."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I was so worried." Mrs. Wilkins puts a hand to her forehead and sways, and for a moment Hermione is afraid she is going to pass out. But she only lifts her face to the ceiling and releases a heavy sigh, euphoria giving way to exasperation. "You know, I told him I didn't want to cast that spell, but he just kept begging. I'm never doing it again, I swear it. Next time he walks in on his parents -" The steam behind Mrs. Wilkins's rambling relief falters when she realizes what she's almost said, and her cheeks – previously quite pale – flush with blood. "Well," she stutters, eyes going from Hermione to the wall to the floor, "he'll just have to live with it is all."

Hermione, who was briefed on the unfortunate encounter between William Wilkins and his parents, nods quickly, eager as his wife to avoid the subject. "A wise decision. You should never cast any spell you aren't completely comfortable with," she says, feeling it her duty to tack on the advice, given most people end up in her ward for precisely that reason.

"Now, this is Timothy." Hermione gestures toward the waiting room entryway, where a young man in a green uniform is standing, sporting an amused grin that deepens Mrs. Wilkins's blush. "He'll take you back to your husband's room. Since William isn't legally competent at the moment, there will be some papers for you to sign on his behalf. Once that's done you'll be free to go, and Timothy will escort you out. If you need anything else, or have any questions, don't hesitate to Floo. My name's Healer Granger, but if I'm not here someone else will gladly help you." Hermione offers a final encouraging smile before shaking Mrs. Wilkins's hand and steering her toward Timothy. "You can rest easy. Have a good night."

Last patient of the night – fingers crossed – successfully seen to, Hermione makes a cautious trek back to her office, careful to keep an eye out for anyone who might ask her to "take a quick look" at a patient. The deceptively labeled glances at a chart have a habit of morphing into hours of extra work, and while Hermione normally doesn't mind assisting a fellow Healer with a case, tonight all she wants to do is go home and bury herself in her own bed for six solid hours before starting all over again tomorrow.

She manages to reach her office without having to duck into any closets, and sinks gratefully into her rolling chair, feeling safe enough to chance a happy sigh. She is just reaching for her quill when Romilda Vane, a fellow Gryffindor, and now a Healer on the third floor, sticks her head into her office. Hermione freezes, hand hovering above her desk, dread sinking her stomach.

"Please tell me you're not here in a professional capacity."

The smile already stretching Romilda's lips widens, the pleased expression more honest than anything Hermione saw from the other woman during their school days. Their shared history caused a bit of a rough start between them when Romilda started at St. Mungo's six years ago, but the passing of time smoothed the old grudges enough to clear a path for friendship. These days Hermione considers Romilda her closest colleague, and even something of a confidante, though she would value the relationship more if Romilda didn't have a reputation for seeking out the company – and in some cases the companionship – of the hospital's brightest minds.

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'm here to check on your patient. How is he, by the way? The one who saw his parents," she makes an obscene gesture, "you know."

"Perfectly fine. Probably in better health than I am, actually," Hermione says, combing through the stack of papers on her desk, looking for William's initial injury report so she can mark the case resolved and file the paperwork away. "Dazed from the spell's effects is all. Just like ninety-eight percent of the other Memory Charm cases that darken my door."

"You sound upset." Romilda's tone is laced with indulgent amusement, as it usually is when Hermione looks poised to launch into a rant. "You know, it's a good thing when they're not permanently damaged."

Hermione huffs. "I know that. It just seems like every person who casts a Memory Charm these days panics and thinks they've done permanent damage. It's a Memory Charm for Merlin's sake, some confusion should be expected. Especially when it's cast with all the delicacy of a tiptoeing rhinoceros."

Romilda laughs outright and steps into the office, making herself comfortable on the arm of a chair directly across from Hermione. "Maybe a change in the admittance policy is in order," she says, but Hermione can tell the words are more teasing than an actual suggestion. "Something to bring up at the next staff meeting, maybe."

"Please." Hermione unleashes another unladylike noise, then happily discovers William's report. She waves it triumphantly. "If we don't bring them in for a full work up, we don't get their Galleons. I'd be better off suggesting we provide charm casting services. That way, at least, the spell's properly done and we still get paid."

"Sounds like a brainwave." Romilda smiles at Hermione for a protracted moment, amusement softening to affection. She crosses her legs, then makes a show of checking her watch. "It's nearly midnight, you must be done for the night."

"Yes, thank Merlin." She scratches out a final signature on William's paperwork before sending it off to the filing department with a wave of her wand. "I'm in at seven tomorrow, so I plan to spend every moment between now and then tucked into bed. Asleep if at all possible."

Romilda makes a face. "Your work ethic is disgusting, you know that, don't you?"

"It's been mentioned."

Hermione's dry rejoinder is followed by a strangely expectant silence. The quiet, thick with an unnameable something, catches her by surprise. She's never associated silence of any kind with Romilda, so she pretends not to notice, making a show of storing her wand while keeping an eye on Romilda. She seems poised for something, tension in her shoulders showing her already half committed, but Hermione can't think to what. She's imagining any number of unethical requests when Romilda says, "I'm off to meet some friends at The Pitch. Care to come along? You can keep me company since they've all been out for hours, and I'll likely be the only one sober. I'm sure you've earned enough points with Dane to come in a few hours late tomorrow."

To say Hermione is shocked would be putting it mildly. She can't remember the last time a co-worker invited her out for a drink, not being the sort of person a fun-minded individual wants to spend a lot of time with after hours. She's never cared one way or the other, not being the type of person who enjoys going to raucous pubs and holding conversations at a scream, but the offer is unexpectedly tempting.

The last three months, her workdays have consisted of little more than twelve hour shifts followed by depressingly lonely nights in a too-quiet flat. And her weekends, once a respite from the routine cases and the pressures of research, have not been any better. If she's not visiting her parents or at the Burrow, she's getting ahead on paperwork, reading through long-term case files for the umpteenth time, or watching documentaries on the telly, just so she can make a list of factual errors and post a letter of corrections to the director.

It's a deeply depressing existence, and it's been far too long since she's had anything resembling fun. Longer still since that fun wasn't dampened by uncertainty or guilt or unspoken complications. And Romilda's offer certainly promises fun, but Hermione is no fool. She recognizes Romilda's look, has seen it directed at more than half a dozen targets during her years here. Never in all that time did she think it would – or could – be aimed at her, and for a moment, Hermione thinks fatigue has made her delusional.

But a deeper look confirms her suspicions. Hermione may never be the most social person, and has no interest in the more nuanced intricacies of human communication – what's the use of saying a word if one doesn't say exactly what one means? - but she'd have to possess no social skills whatsoever not to realize Romilda's offer is more than drinks with co-workers.

"Romilda," she starts, flattered and curious but ultimately practical, "I think -"

Her answer is interrupted by the arrival of a squat woman with silver, fly-away hair. She doesn't knock, just strides into Hermione's office like it's her own, dress robes billowing around her ankles. She doesn't slow down until she's standing in front of Hermione's desk, arms crossed, feet spread like she's braced for an attack.

"Granger," she says, in typically clipped tones. "Glad to see you're still here."

"Healer Dane." Surprise at seeing her supervisor makes Hermione quick to her feet. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone home for -"

"We have a situation." For the first time, Healer Dane looks around the office, her words stopping abruptly when she notices Romilda still balancing on the arm of a chair. A scowl twists her face, and she waits, staring until Romilda catches the hint with an accompanying blush.

"Right. I suppose I should go." She rises with slow reluctance, hesitating even in the face of a senior Healer's annoyance. "Something tells me I won't be seeing you at The Pitch tonight." Her smile is regretful. "I hope we can reschedule. Goodnight ladies."

Hermione nods, noncommittal, and watches Romilda walk away, not sure what to make of the woman's sudden interest in her. Not even sure it's genuine, or that it will last. It wouldn't be the first time someone rethought their interest in another person after a night's loneliness had been chased away by the morning, and she can't help but think that will be the case with Romilda.

Realizing now is neither the time or the place to contemplate such things, Hermione snaps her attention toward Dane, who is staring out the doorway, small frown tugging at her mouth.

"You're next on the list, I see," she says, once the echo of Romilda's departing footsteps has faded. She speaks without inflection, and Hermione waits, sure a warning against inter-hospital relationships is coming.

"Took her long enough to get round to you, didn't it?" Dane continues, shocking her completely. To be honest, she would never have guessed Dane paid attention to hospital gossip, certain the woman would think it beneath her. "You're worth at least two of that fellow she was just with. What's his name? He specializes in bug bites, I think. Trapper wasn't it?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"Bah, his name isn't worth knowing in any case." Dane waves a hand, the issue dismissed and forgotten just that easily, then makes herself comfortable in the chair Romilda vacated. "All right, back to business. I just received word of a memory modification incident and I'd like you to see to it personally."

"Of course." Hermione reaches for her wand, resigned to another hour spent away from her bed. At this rate, the only way she'll get a quality night's sleep is if she retires from her job to do it. "Is the patient here or on the way?"

"Actually, you'll be making a house call. It's a bit of a sensitive case, and the parties involved desire privacy and discretion."

Dane tries to soften the words with a smile, well aware of how Hermione feels about giving patient's special treatment – usually because of the size of their Gringott's Bank account. Hermione turns to the cabinet against the back wall, forcing herself to move against the urge to say something ill advised. Her back to Dane, she gives her annoyed frown free reign, and starts gathering her travel supplies: her most commonly used spell ingredients, a shrinkable cauldron, potion bottles and smaller vials, and a travel-sized book of potion recipes.

She does her best to keep the irritation from her voice. "Am I expected tomorrow or -"

"Oh, tonight, most definitely. The family is quite concerned for their daughter, and feel early assessment is best."

"Of course." Hermione shoves her spell book into her travel bag with more force than is warranted, reaches for a vial and looks at Dane over her shoulder. "I'll head out immediately, then. What's the name and location of the family?"

Dane looks around Hermione's office, seemingly to ensure it really is empty, then leans close. "It's the Parkinson's," she says, her excitement a living thing, no doubt made so by the promise of a sizable donation, "and they're at the family's primary estate. You can travel there by Floo."

The vial slips from between Hermione's fingers and breaks against the floor as ever muscle in her body goes lax with shock. She almost sinks to her knees, and just manages to catch her weight against a shelf.

Suddenly, a bad situation just got one hundred times worse.

To be continued.