A/N: I have a dear friend, ibuzoo, to thank for being there to help me out with the revision process and helping out with being my beta for the first chapter. Not all faults can be found by yourself. Which is why friends are needed. Remember that, guys.
Disclaimer: All characters and events are owned and created by J.K. Rowling and absolutely no profit is being made off of this.
0: PREFACE
Fate was a cruel mistress that pulled her strings like a violin, hard and without mercy. Hermione didn't know how she ended here, of all places, in the London metro. Without a specific destination to rush to, her white gown caught the dirt off of the polluted seats. She sat hunched over, face buried in her hands while the tip of her fingers dug deep into her brown curls, tugging on them in the process. Silent sobs were shocking her body and not even the gentle rocks of the train could help to calm her down.
The edges of her white bridal gown were stained with mud, her once-perfect satin heels were covered in the same. Her hair was falling from its delicate up-do into messy strains, the petite crystal tiara that sat at the very top of her head threatening to fall off. Unstoppable tears blurred her view, smudging her mascara until it sat in a fading stream down to her cheeks.
Hermione tried to focus on the lacy floral patter in her bodice, the sheerness of the skirt that was the main reason she had picked this dress to begin with, but nothing helped. Nothing.
Around her, a few people occupied the surrounding seats. A number of people kept to themselves with their headphones blasting music to deter them away from the crying almost-bride. Others tried to avoid looking at her, though their eyes wandered to her every now and then as they tried to look occupied with empty hands or useless purses.
Trying to be as quiet as possible as to not attract even more attention as she already did when walking onto the train, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She bit down on her lip hard, welcoming the flash of pain shooting trough her body. She desperately wished that the ache would get her mind off the terrible mistake she had just made.
She had hurt one of her best friends, even went to the lengths of betraying him.
I'm such a horrible person.
Her sobs subsided, her breath evened out, and she pulled her hands from her face hesitantly. They were shaking, to the point that she felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life. She didn't know how to control it. In her life, she had never been this aware of her own mistakes, aware that her life was this fucked up. She was cold, alone, and it was her own fault. She shouldn't have gotten close to him. She shouldn't have allowed herself to break the heart of her best friend. She never should have felt anything at all.
She turned her body partially around so that her eyes caught the reflection of her own sorrowful face in the mist-covered train windows. Her final destination was still uncertain, and she wished she could visit her parents to crawl away under the covers of her old bed, bury herself in her books and block anything painful out. But they held no memories of me anymore and I am nothing more than a stranger to them.
She had nowhere to retract to but her flat in Diagon Alley, and thank goodness she still had her job at Flourish and Blotts with a little fortune safely stacked in Gringrotts on the side.
Her arms wrapped automatically around her slender, shaking frame, shielding and isolating her from the loneliness that hung around her like a thick, black cloud. She denied herself vehemently to see the silver lining on the horizon as soon as it arrived in eyesight.
Everything was his fault, and his alone. She would never forget him, the man who had shown her a world far beyond her imagination, a world her best friend forever failed to give her.
But it had to stop.
She needed to forget and move on, a clean break, a fresh start.
The train came to a jolting, screeching halt. Her hands were still shaking and she lifted her right one to wash away the mist on the grubby train window, nearly pressing her face against the glass to look out and see at which station they had arrived.
At least, she still had her memories.
But was this really a good thing?
1: WORDLESS
She didn't know where she was, or how she even came to be here. She tried to think, she honestly did...
My name is Hermione Granger, I'm seventeen years old, and I can't move.
That was as much as she knew, and that scared her. Her heartbeat trampled through any noise available and she could feel it in her chest as she laid there, helpless and feeble. Her stomach knotted as she looked up to see a high stone ceiling.
"Oh goodness! You're awake!" she managed to hear a high-pitched female voice squeal. Hermione flinched, focusing on the voice over her own heartbeat. It was a voice filled with a strange mix of worry and relief. "It's a miracle you're alive!" the voice said next. Hermione felt the bed she was laying in dip, looking over at the young woman dressed in a nurse's uniform. It was a light gray dress with a crisp white apron atop it with a matching pointed hat.
She didn't recognize the woman and that made her panic further.
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as her breathing increased into a rapid rhythm, looking around the room she was in for any help. A tear spilled down her cheek and slowed at her temple, the other falling down until it hit her tangled brown hair.
"Calm down dear, you're alright," the woman assured her soothingly. Concern and a form of gentleness was splayed across her face as Hermione looked at her once again.
The woman couldn't have been older than thirty with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair pinned back under the white hat. Hermione was able to identify one thing, in the least. The woman's uniform seemed old-fashioned.
"Drink this, it will help sooth your nerves and feel wondrous on your throat," she said, pulling a vial out from her apron's pocket.
It looked to be a bottled potion, from Hermione's assumptions. Inside was a light pink liquid with soft carbonized bubbles. The woman pulled the cork out from it and dipped the contents into Hermione's mouth. Hermione welcomed the cold liquid, swallowing it with a sore throat. In seconds, she felt her heart begin to slow down to its normal pace, and all her worries begin to fade.
She tried to sit up next. Maybe she had only thought herself to be paralyzed at first, but she was right. Her muscles didn't respond to her thoughts. Sit up! She tried to speak next, opening her mouth and licking her dry, cracked lips. What came out was a strangled, dried whisper-like noise that sounded dreadful to her own ears.
"Try not to speak, dear. It will slow down the healing process," the woman suggested, reaching over to a nightstand. Hermione's eyes followed the woman's hands, seeing her dip a dry cloth into a bowl and ringing it out. Water. The woman dabbed Hermione's forehead gently.
"Madam Promfrey?" came an elder's voice from the end of the room.
Pomfrey, Hermione thought. Why does that sound so familiar? Do I know her?
"Oh, Dippet! Come at once. She's awoken!" Madam Pomfrey sounded excited.
Hermione's eyes found the approaching male's face.
It was an old man, walking beside a somewhat younger man. He had an aged, wrinkled face and a scruffy white beard to match his long white hair, which seemed to have been pulled back somehow. She didn't recognize him at all. But she felt like she should recognize the man beside him, who had light auburn hair, just as long as the older man's. He wore half-moon spectacles and a beard that reached his stomach.
Her eyes traveled around the room again, eying the empty beds besides her and across the room. She saw the cabinet of potions. It must have been an infirmary of some sort, like a hospital wing in a large building.
"My dear," started the man called Dippet, "do you know who you are?"
"Dippet," said the man next to him. "She's been through so much in the past twenty four hours. Surely you could give her some room."
"Dumbledore's right. She can't speak yet anyhow," agreed the woman called Pomfrey.
Dumbledore. Her heart picked up in speed for a mere moment, feeling as if she needed to tell this man something, but unable to put her finger on what exactly.
"She looks well enough to write in the least," said Dippet as he looked at Hermione. Pomfrey sighed beside her and got up, motioning towards the space she had just been sitting in.
Dumbledore sat down instead of Dippet, pulling out a sheet of rolled up parchment. Pomfrey left, soon returning with an inkwell and pulled a quill from her pocket, handing both to Dumbledore. A tray of some sort had been sat down on Hermione's lap once Pomfrey helped sit her up, cushioning her back with various pillows to assure her comfort. It felt good to be laying in a different position.
Hermione looked down at the piece of unrolled parchment and managed to move her arm, but weakly. She wanted to groan at the feeling it gave her, as if she hadn't moved her arm in months and had lost all strength in the muscles.
Dumbledore, Dippet, and Pomfrey eyed Hermione warily.
"What is your name?" Dippet asked first.
Weakly, Hermione dipped the quill into the inkwell and wrote, "Hermione Granger."
"A Muggle-born," said Dumbledore quickly.
Muggle... Why did that sound so familiar to her? She was drawing so many frustrating blanks that tears refilled her eyes once more and she began sobbing silently.
"Out, both of you. You're upsetting her!" Promfrey scolded, motioning her hands to shoo the two away.
But Hermione wanted answers, regardless of how upset she was that she needed them to begin with. She reached a weak hand she was surprised she could even move out and grabbed a hold of Dumbledore's arm, looking at him with pleading eyes to stay.
Dumbledore must have seen the words written in her eyes.
He looked at Dippet and then back to Hermione. "Do you know how you got here, Hermione Granger?" Dumbledore asked her. He had kind brown eyes that made her feel at ease, as if she were talking to a friend she had know for a while.
"Do you?" she wrote. Her handwriting was messy, sloppy, but readable.
Hermione watched Dumbledore furrow his eyebrows and shifted a bit. "No," he answered. "You were found badly injured, Miss Granger."
"How old are you?" Pomfrey asked for them.
"Seventeen."
"So young," Pomfrey commented as she looked down at Dumbledore and over at Dippet with a pitied expression. Her eyebrows were softly knitted together, a hand touching her lips as her brown eyes flashed with worry and pity.
Dumbledore got up and Hermione's eyes followed him. He stopped at the nightstand as he picked up what looked to be a wand. "This was found with you when one of our students found you in a hallway."
Hermione's eyebrows rose, looking between everyone before she wrote down, "I'm in a school?"
"A school for witchcraft and wizardry," Dippet responded. "The wand that was with you indicates that you're a witch."
Witchcraft? Wizardry? In a sense, it seemed almost as if this was hysteric, a joke. And that was what drove Hermione to suddenly burst into a fit of silent laughter, confused tears turned to laughing.
Everyone looked surprised at her mood swing as her laughter soon died down when the other part of her recognized this as apart of her life. She looked between everyone once more before she dipped the quill into the ink and wrote quickly, "A...witch?"
Hermione watched Dumbledore and Dippet exchange a look.
"It explains any possibility of why you're here, but not why you can't remember anything aside from your name and age."
"Tests have showed no hereditary diseases or head trauma," Pomfrey quickly answered. Hermione saw confusion on the woman's face.
The bushy grey eyebrows of Dippet pulled together as he looked up at Dumbledore, who was a full foot taller than him. "Dumbledore?" It was as if a man was asking his friend for advice.
The silence in the atmosphere led Pomfrey to push the two men out of the room. "She needs to finish healing," she urged.
It had taken Hermione another vial of that light pink potion for her to fall asleep. Her head felt as if it were spinning between the potion's effects and all the questions running through her mind. It led her to restlessness where she'd sleep for an hour, wake up, take some time to fall back to sleep all within an endless cycle.
It must have been hours later when Hermione was trying her hardest to fall back to sleep, clearly exhausted, when voices reached her ears. Her eyes opened and she stared up at the high stone ceiling, listening closely.
"...she needs to be schooled," said a familiar voice. It must have been Dippet's. "She's a witch."
Confusion flooded Hermione. There was that word again, filling her with so many questions.
"Indeed. But what do we do about her current situation?" came another voice with concern. This one was female and unfamiliar, but sounded to be just as aged as Dippet's.
"The best we can do is wait for her to regain her memories," said Dumbledore.
"But what if she doesn't get her memories back, Albus?" asked Dippet with a hysteric sense. He sounded pushy, worried, even stressed.
There was silence.
"There's no doubt her memories can be restored within time," replied the woman after a while. "But how are we going to teach her six years of schooling, Professor? How do we know if she's ever been to an institution like this?"
"What about tutoring, Dippet?" asked Dumbledore.
"Surely that wouldn't hurt," agreed the woman.
"She will need to be tutored every single day," said Dippet warily. "Who in Merlin's beard would agree to that?"
"I know of someone," Dumbledore quickly said. "Tom Riddle. He's the smartest individual Hogwarts has seen. Surely he would be best to help Hermione."
Tom Riddle.
Fear flooded her chest again followed with even more questions. The name was familiar, and she had no clue as to how or why.
The wing was silent now and Hermione had drifted back into her restless sleep.
Hermione's eyes opened when she could no longer sleep. Out of instinct she sat up, followed with a widening of her eyes. I sat up on my own. She wasn't paralyzed anymore – she was healed. To test just how far her healing had really went, she spoke.
"Hello?" she croaked. Her voice was weak and scratchy, but it was there, no longer a mangled whisper.
Suddenly, the sound of heels clicking against the stone flooring filled Hermione's ears and Pomfrey turned up, coming into view.
"Miss Granger, you're up and well, thank goodness!" she said with an excited smile.
Hermione stifled a relieved smile.
"How are you feeling dear?" She asked as she put her hands on her hips and stood at the foot of the bed.
"Sore, but all in all, fine," Hermione answered honestly. The only thing sore about her was her stiff neck and everything about her back and spine. Her legs felt cramped and she knew a long walk was needed.
"Do you want to try walking, dear?" Pomfrey soon asked kindly.
"Yes," Hermione quickly answered with a smile as she grabbed the blanket that had been on top of her, pushing it to the foot of the bed with her feet gently. She swung her legs around until her socked feet touched the cold surface of the stone floor, looking down at herself and eying her clothes. A worn navy blue jumper over a faded pastel pink tee shirt with thick black leggings. She pushed herself to her feet, finding it a bit hard to keep herself from being so wobbly. Other than that, she was able to stand with ease. Pomfrey held out a hand and Hermione took it to keep herself steady. With ease, she took a few steps forward, regaining full feeling in her legs.
"You're able to walk, wondrous!" Pomfrey cheered as Hermione took a few more steps away from the bed and towards the middle aisle of the wing.
Just then, Dumbledore came walking through the opened double doors at the end of the wing. He wore a small smile, his eyes on Hermione. It was almost as if he knew she had awoken. How?
"You've healed, I see?" he asked when he finally reached Hermione.
Hermione let go of Pomfrey's hand after she found her balance and nodded her head.
"Do any of you know what happened to me?" she asked the moment available.
Dumbledore and Pomfrey exchanged a look before Pomfrey spoke for Dumbledore. "One of the Prefects had found you barely alive and brought you here. Your vocal and spinal chords were torn, somewhat mangled, nearly beyond repair. But given the correct potions and well-needed rest, you're perfectly fine again."
"Who found me?" Hermione murmured.
"A boy named Tom Riddle. You'll be meeting him later," said Dumbledore.
"So you see, you're all in good shape." Pomfrey put her hand to Hermione's shoulder for a moment, giving off a warm and genuine smile.
"Except my memories," Hermione added softly.
Pomfrey's warm smile faltered. "Except your memories."
