A/N: First something in a while of nothing. I hope you like it.
It started with a simple thing. Nothing like in the muggle movies and books. It began with a voice – a man's voice – disembodied but conversational.
"…I told him…" the voice said, not at all directed at her.
And then repeat.
"…I told him…"
Like a pop song's chorus that sticks in your head, that phrase, those words, that voice – all of it ricocheted painfully in Hermione Granger's head for four whole days.
Being the logical person that she was, Hermione sought after the source of her irritation – did she hear it on the radio? On her TV? Did she hear it in passing on the street? Or was it from a movie? But, like a dream already dreamt she could not for the life of her remember.
And it was so frustrating! It was as though the expression had actually come in and replaced her brain and found that it actually had space to jump around!
By the final day of this torture, she was almost completely resigned to the idea that this intangible, incurable thing would continue for the rest of her life. Until, finally, she was walking by the conference rooms and, for the first time, she heard the voice outside of her head.
"And so I told him, I said, 'Look, if you're going to…"
Hermione practically gave herself whiplash from the suddenness of her own pause. She looked into the conference room and saw to ordinary wizards – people she had seen but by no means worked with – having an ordinary conversation. But one of them had released her. As soon as he had said those words, her brain regaining control over her entire being.
It was almost a whole two weeks before another one hit. This time it wasn't a sound, it was an image. A bright light bulb turning off – incredibly bright to start with and then, just as suddenly, reduced to nothing but a curly wire glowing orange behind the glass.
The image, like a film clip on repeat seemed to be on the back of her eyelids and it drove Hermione nearly insane. She was beginning to think she was one of those highly unlucky people who had schizophrenia.
This went for a whole week, despite Hermione having prayed against it harder than she had about her hair in third year. This was especially important as at the end of the week was the traditional Third Wednesday of the Month Weasley Brunch. An event that Hermione always half-dreaded if not for the company, because it was always nice to see everyone in the same place, but for the noise.
But, despite her unwillingness, Hermione knew that she had to go. There had only been one occasion when she had missed the monthly event and that was because she had actually contracted a very serious case of dragonpox (and even then Mrs Weasley had brought over leftovers first thing).
And so, she woke on the Sunday and got dressed before promptly leaving her apartment in muggle London and set off for a safe place to apparate.
She was weaving her way through the meadows by nine (while the meal itself would not actually be ready until eleven, Mrs Weasley often required several helpers to provide the gratuitous amounts of food as the number of guests had been anything from ten to twenty-seven).
Hermione let herself in.
"Hullo, Mrs Weasley," she greeted, hanging her handbag on the coat hook by the backdoor and slipping off her coat and muddy shoes.
"Hermione! It's lovely to see you! Be a dear and take the kettle off the stove would you? I've no hands whatsoever."
Wordlessly, Hermione obeyed the red-haired woman and removed the whistling kettle from the stove.
As it turned out, other than George, who had stayed over the night before, Hermione was the first guest to arrive for brunch. Despite this, the house remained as noisy and bustling as ever with Molly giving her gracious directions, pots bubbling, George yelling about clothes and Errol flapping around outside with the Daily Prophet.
By half past ten, the Burrow was nearly brimming with life. Harry and Ginny had arrived with baby James and little Teddy in tow; Charlie had arrived soaking wet for no apparent reason; and Ronald had arrived with his brand new girlfriend and haircut.
Before long, with the combination of general Weasley havoc and the annoyingly persistent image, Hermione felt her completely exhausted. Finally having enough people in the house to slip away unnoticed for a couple of minutes, Hermione retreated to Mr Weasley's backyard shed, where he kept all evidence of his obsession with muggles.
Turning on the light, Hermione found herself a stool and sat down heavily, rubbing at her face harshly. She closed her eyes and let the image wash over again and again. Perhaps she was mad…
She had no idea how long it had been since she came in, it could have been anything from five minutes to an hour, the shed door opened and Hermione looked up to see that Mr Weasley's familiar silhouette was in the doorway, a concerned expression etched onto his face.
"There you are! Amongst my knick-knacks I see. We're about to serve the food now and Molly asked me to look for you."
"Oh. Sorry, Arthur," Hermione said, shaking head of the image before standing up.
"Hermione, is something wrong?" Mr Weasley asked kindly. "I was talking to Miss Donnelly and she said that you seem distracted of late…?"
Hermione thought about the question, silently contemplating whether or not it was worth telling Mr Weasley about what she had been dealing with. Especially if it was interfering with her work performance…
And there it was again. The light bulb.
"Yes," she groaned, not looking at him. "I don't know what's the matter with me!"
Like a true father, Mr Weasley pulled up the nearest stool and set himself up next to her.
"What's the matter, Hermione?" he asked quietly. "You can tell me anything."
But she didn't need that particular assurance. Ever since she had spent her first holiday at the Burrow, Hermione had felt a deep connection to Arthur and Molly Weasley. Throughout her formative years, they had been her go-to for all questions magic-related (just as she had quickly become Arthur's for all queries muggle-related) and she felt almost as close to them as she did her own parents.
And so, without any further encouragement, Hermione spilled her guts. She explained how the words had stayed with her earlier in the month, how they went away, how long they lasted. She explained about the light bulb and how scared she was because it was so much longer than last time.
Mr Weasley listened to the twenty-two-year-old woman without judgement but plenty of sympathy, letting her talk herself out.
By the end, Hermione was a complete mess. Even while she talked about the problem she couldn't feel any relief. Not with this persistent image photocopied on her frontal lobe.
"It's going to be okay, Hermione," Mr Weasley consoled, feeling only a little awkward about her tears. He was the man who had comforted her through all those times when his own son had offended her – he could handle a little crying. "The first thing we should do is book an appointment with a Healer. I doubt your problem is physiological, but it will be a good starting point and, if they're any good, they'll be able to point us in the right direction, okay?"
Hermione nodded miserably.
"Now, I'm sure everyone is wondering where we are. If you don't mind being left alone, I think I'll go back to the house and explain to everyone that you will be a few minutes and that'll buy you some time to make yourself presentable and think about what I've suggested properly. Sound good?"
"Thank you, Arthur." Hermione croaked.
"My pleasure, dear. Stay after brunch and we'll talk it over with Molly as well."
And with that, Mr Weasley pecked her on the forehead quickly and headed unhurriedly for the shed's exit.
It took Hermione more than a few minutes to calm herself down again, but it wasn't more than twenty minutes before she was staring inside the shed, willing herself to turn around and go back to the house. Slowly, her fingers flicked the switch (Arthur's homemade attempt at applying electricity) and…
The light bulb went out – incredibly bright to start with and then, just as suddenly, reduced to nothing but a curly wire glowing orange behind the glass.
And the pressing image in the back of Hermione's mind popped out of existence.
Hermione almost dissolved back into her tears. Only this time, they were tears of relief! She practically skipped back to the dining room, apologising to Mrs Weasley for missing out on the final preparations, ignoring Mr Weasley's worried looks, and brushing away any concerned questions about her absence.
It was the best Third Sunday Brunch she'd ever experienced. Everything tasted better, everyone seemed nicer and she was on cloud nine.
Finally, at about four, when everyone had finally left (the usual time for the monthly gathering), Hermione turned to Mr and Mrs Weasley who were both looking at her with anxiety dominating their faces.
"You obviously filled Molly in on the situation, Arthur," Hermione said brightly, pulling on her shoes and grabbing her coat and bag as quickly as she could. "But, as you can see, the whole thing is no longer a problem. The image of the light bulb is gone, and there's nothing to worry about! Everything's fine! I'll see you next month!"
And then she was out the door and disapparated back home. She had barely heard Mr and Mrs Weasley's protests.
It was not more than ten minutes later that Hermione's mobile phone was vibrating in her pocket. She knew it would be Mr Weasley begging her to return and talk over everything but she decided it would be best if she ignored it.
Hermione Granger danced home.
A/N: How did I go? It's been a while so I would love to know your thoughts.