Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Draco Malfoy would definitely not have a receding hairline.
Chapter 1: Imitation of Death
Walking through the hospital corridor, I am blissfully unaware of the impeding chaos that awaits me.
I'm Ginny Potter, nee Weasley, Senior Healer of Spell Damage in St. Mungo's hospital. My next patient is a witch, who along with her daughter and many others were victims of the Bulgarian Quidditch stadium accident that happened two days ago. It made big news even in London. The Bulgarian hospitals were overflowing with victims, so some were transferred to hospitals abroad. I know this witch couldn't be too critical, they kept the worst victims in Bulgaria. This really isn't my area of expertise, however, with all the additional victims transported from Bulgaria the hospital is short-staffed.
I briefly review the chart before stepping into the room. Annabelle Prescott, age unknown, but the admitting healer pinned her to be early twenties. Her family history is unknown except for a daughter, Carina Prescott (whom the same healer estimates to be 5), who was also admitted. I vaguely wonder if Malfoy will treat her daughter. I thought I saw him around the hospital today. There isn't much about this victim that is known, her chart is eerily empty. And once I step into the room I realize why.
Annabelle Prescott doesn't exist. And if she did, I know she would be 23. Born September 19.
I know this because I'm staring at the ghost of Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger can't possibly be alive because she was killed almost six years ago, at the beginning of the War. I still remember Snape returning from what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance meeting. His greasy hair matted with blood and sticking to his face. His normally piercing black eyes were dull as he told us they had been ambushed and Hermione did not make it.
She looks slightly older now. Her bushy hair looks a shade darker than I remember. It looks like its been straightened, but it seems, after two days of unconsciousness, the unruly curls are peeking its way through. Training and logic has been thrown out the window. I need to shake her awake, hug her and make sure she's real. Instead, my hand reaches out to hers, clutching it. Any thoughts that this is a dream are lost because I can feel her hand warm in mine.
Apparently my grip rouses her because Hermione slowly blinks her eyes open. Unfamiliar grey eyes stare back at me. For a moment I doubt myself, my eyes. Perhaps this really is Annabelle Prescott and my mind is superimposing my dead best friend on this patient.
Her grey eyes blink rapidly in confusion for a moment before a fleeting look of recognition passes over her face. She pulls her hand out from mine and quickly scrambles up. A wave of dizziness hits her and she sways slightly.
"Wh-where am I?"
I want to scream at her. After six years and that's all she has to say. But her voice, so empty and so very un-Hermione-like, stops me.
"You've been admitted to St. Mungo's," I say calmly, in my soothing Healer voice. "There was an accident at the Bulgarian Quidditch stadium. You were floo-ed here because Bulgaria's hospitals were overcrowded."
She gazes vacantly at her hands now, absently wiggling her fingers. Something about her mannerism, her aura, tells me this is not the Hermione I remembered, the one who was lost to us six years ago. For a second I wonder if Hermione Granger did truly die that day.
"What is the last thing you remember?" I ask.
"We were at the stadium. Bulgaria was winning. There was a terrible noise. I threw myself over Ca-," she breaks off and a look of horror steals over her features. For the first time since she's woken up, there is a bit life in her empty grey eyes.
"Carina! Where is my daughter?" her eyes are wild now and I can almost see a glimmer of the Hermione I used to know.
"She's fine," I soothe. "The healers are checking in on her now, but she's fine." I pat her hand and her eyes slowly lose the wildness. I make a mental note to check up on her daughter to make sure.
"Hermi-" I begin.
But she shakes her head and cuts me off.
"My name is Annabelle," she whispers in a hallow voice that I don't recognize. "I need to see my daughter."
I sigh. Her face has gone from confused to shock to panic to completely blank in a matter of moments. Whatever has happened, whatever made her leave us, has changed Hermione. She seems too fragile now. Like she'd shatter if I speak too loudly.
"I'll arrange for it, but I need to check you out first."
She nods dully. I perform the routine exam we've been giving to the survivors. She responds to my medical questions docilely but almost mechanical. Once the check up is done, I turn to leave the room. I have a million questions but I know she's not ready. Her behavior is frightening and reminds me vaguely of Neville's parents.
It was her parting words to me, as I exited the door that stopped my heart a second time. There was desperation peeking out of her hallow voice.
"Please don't tell him."
I turned and looked back at her. Her eyes are still dull and empty. But she was looking at me again, and without thinking I nod my head and leave the room.
As soon as the door shuts I break into a sprint. I know I shouldn't be doing this, Harry would kill me if he knew. In a few months I wont even be able to move this fast. But I can't help it. The chart said her daughter was about five. Old enough to be…
I have to find Carina before he does.
