Present Day
Hermione listened for the click of the door closing behind her before moving. Carefully balancing the tray and the bundle of soiled linens, she made her way up the stairs.
The lights in the kitchen were a shock to her eyes after hours in the basement. Wincing slightly at the brightness, she put the tray down on the counter and tossed the sheets into the laundry hamper. It was too late to contemplate doing the washing up. Instead, she picked her wand up off the table and charmed the kettle to fill and heat itself.
While her tea steeped, she found herself staring out the window and thinking about Cormac's request. What had she been thinking, agreeing to his notions of escape? Was it really the best course of action? He seemed to be improving and part of that was due to the sense of purpose that he drew from planning their 'escape.' Perhaps it would be a valuable step in his healing process.
On the other hand, if it failed, it could not only undo all the work they'd been doing but set him back even further. It depended entirely on Cormac's underlying psychological needs. Some days she felt that her work was very similar to how Bill described the process of curse breaking: neutralizing one set of spells just exposed another danger underneath. Until she knew every layer of Cormac, down to the core, she risked triggering hidden traps.
Hermione sighed as she picked up the tea tray. It was time to pull out her notes and start at the beginning.
May1997
The Battle of Hogwarts had been won. The war was over and everything could go back to normal. Or something like that. Hermione didn't know and frankly, she didn't much care.
She'd survived; Ron had survived. Harry had died, but then he managed to survive anyway. Neville was a hero. And so many people had died that Hermione couldn't keep them all straight in her head. That never happened. She could recite every potion that used costmary leaves – fresh, dried, or powdered (six, eight, and three brews, respectively) – but she couldn't remember the names of the fallen, or how they died. It was odd.
The funerals had begun twelve days ago. Many families took their loved ones away to be buried at home, but it was decided that the space between Dumbledore's tomb and the forest would be made available to any who wished for their parent, or child, or wife, or husband to be buried by the Headmaster.
The first memorial was Fred Weasley's. Hermione and Harry had stood by in silence as Ron's family collapsed in on itself. After that day, she had chosen to watch the services from a distance. Unclaimed victims of the Death Eater camp outside of Hogsmeade were laid to rest by the lake, including Donaghan Tremlett, his wife, and Cormac McLaggen's mother. The Creevey family came to bury Colin in "his favourite place in the world" according to his mother. Andromeda Tonks stood dry eyed, holding baby Teddy, as her husband, daughter, and son-in-law were laid in the earth. Harry, ever self-sacrificing, sat and suffered with each family. Hermione couldn't image how he managed it.
Today's funeral was different from the rest. There were few mourners standing by the lake. A handful of faculty gathered around Headmistress McGonagall. A witch in mourning robes and a thick veil kept silent vigil a few metres away. Hermione stood beside Harry as he spoke of his least favourite professor's bravery and sacrifice. When he finished the eulogy, Harry turned to face Snape's gravestone.
"I'm sorry I never thanked you," he said, his voice tight. "I'm sorry I hated you all those years. I wish I could have asked you about my mother." He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry for everything you had to do."
He dashed a hard across his eyes, and then pointed his wand at the stone. A rush of magic moved through the air and green stalks erupted from the ground behind the grave. Within seconds, the plants had grown to full maturity and bloomed – half a dozen varieties of lilies, a rainbow of colour. Harry's smile was twisted as he turned and began to walk back to the castle.
"That was beautiful, Harry," Hermione said as she followed him.
"Thanks," he said shortly. "It was mostly Neville – he charmed the bulbs and such."
"The idea was beautiful." Hermione refrained from calling him an idiot, but only just. "From what little you've told me of Snape's past, I think it's a good gesture."
Harry snorted. "Too little, too late. My trademark, I'd say. Finding the right thing to do after the damage is done," he said angrily. "And no, Hermione, I do not want to talk about it."
He lengthened his stride until Hermione had to trot to keep up with him. The uneven ground beneath their feet wasn't helpful and within a few paces, she caught her foot and tripped. Harry, ever considerate, caught her around the waist as she tumbled forward. She gasped as a bolt of disgust ran through her and pulled away from him as soon as she found her balance.
"On the topic of things we're not talking about – what's going on with you?" Harry asked as he stepped away from her. "You're jumpy as Crookshanks that time he got into the catmint."
She brushed her hair from her face, avoiding his gaze. "After the past month, I think I have the right to be 'jumpy.'"
"I suppose. But you've got to sit still at some point. If you don't let Molly hug and coddle you soon, I think she's going to explode with frustration," Harry's smile was genuine. "And she's not the only one worried about you."
Hermione felt an unexpected warmth bloom in her chest. Her boys weren't terribly good at expressing their feelings, so it made moments like this all the more precious. "I know, Harry. Don't worry, I'll let the Daily Prophet know I'm doing fine."
Harry's surprised laughter rang out across the war-torn grounds.
Present Day
Hermione opened the clothes dryer and pulled out the clean sheets for Cormac's bed. Folding them neatly, she mentally ran through the checklist she'd prepared for the "escape" from her house. The challenge was to make it convincing enough that he would receive the positive emotional reinforcement of a successful undertaking while she retained control of the whole process.
The first consideration was where they should escape to. It wasn't as if she could let him apparate to Hogwarts or Diagon Alley. In fact, they couldn't go anywhere where there was a chance of Cormac interacting with other witches and wizards. At first, the Muggle world seemed like an option, but there was the small problem of how Muggles plastered the date on everything in sight. That wouldn't work.
Then she remembered that Ron was supposed to be watching Shell Cottage for Bill and Fleur. Bill had taken a contract in Lyon so that they could raise Victoire in France for a year. Ron had agreed to stay at their house while they were gone, but within two months of their departure, he'd all but moved into Katie Bell's flat. As far as Hermione knew, they spent the occasional weekend at Shell Cottage, but that was it.
She tossed floo powder into the grate and stuck her head through to Katie's. Ron was quick to agree to her using the cottage for a month or two while she finished up the work she was doing. Ron promised to send his owl over with the keys and agreed to her request for uninterrupted solitude. Then he suggested that she change the sheets in the master bedroom before using the bed. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled her head from the flames.
With the question of where taken care of, Hermione turned her mind to how. She and Cormac were now discussing the escape every time she went downstairs. His plans were almost complete, and her plans for how to make them happen were coming together. She pulled his change of clothing from the dryer and realized that before the escape, she would have to find Cormac something new to wear. The sleep trousers and tee shirt in her hand were only a few wearings away from the bin. Another line to add to the checklist.
June 1997
Hermione stepped out of Lavender's room and took a deep breath. She had known that visiting her housemate would be difficult. Lavender had barely survived Greyback's savage attack. The wounds he had inflicted were so deep that the Healers had to cast charms on them every four hours to keep them closed. The scarring was going to be horrific, Hermione knew. She couldn't image how a vain girl like Lavender could handle that prospect.
Still, she felt obliged to visit. She had been to see every one of her former classmates who had ended up in St. Mungo's. Ernie McMillan, whose left hand had been crushed beyond magical repair. Penelope Clearwater, with her beautiful hair burned away by a Dark curse that was slowly being leached from her skin. Dozens of others with injuries small or large.
Lavender's room was in the wing reserved for the most serious cases, where Healers were in and out of the rooms constantly. Two doors down, a wizard was being treated for a mental breakdown after being controlled by Dolohov's Imperius spell for almost fourteen months. Across the hall from him, Cormac McLaggen drifted in and out of some sort of coma.
Cormac had been one of the first people Hermione had visited when she began her trips to St Mungo's. He had been in the hospital for three weeks at that point and was only conscious for short periods. The rescue workers who had pulled him from under the wreckage of North Tower reported that he hadn't regained consciousness once, even though his injuries were extreme. He had over a dozen broken bones as well as internal injuries. Fortunately, in a magical hospital those were easily treated.
When the healing process was complete, though, Cormac still failed to properly wake up. Hermione was fascinated by the work being done by the medi-witch in charge of Cormac's care. She had spoken to the woman numerous times about what was involved in his treatment and what factors might be affecting his recovery.
Healer Winthrop had confided in her one day that "Sometimes they just give up and stop fighting. You've heard someone say that they have nothing to live for?" Hermione had nodded. "Well, for some patients, that appears to be what happens. We can heal their body, but if they decide on some level that they have nothing to live for, there's nothing we can do."
Hermione hadn't known what to say to that. The idea of just giving up and dying was incomprehensible to her. She had spent so many years watching Harry refuse to give up, under even the worst circumstances, to understand it. Merlin's beard, she had spent too much energy making sure that Harry didn't give up to accept that someone could just lie there and let themselves die. Cormac might have been an ass when they were in school together, but he was better than that.
Today, the door to his room was open. Hermione decided to see if Healer Winthrop was in with him. As she approached the door, she slowed her steps. There were two voices coming from the room, and one was low and rough, like that of a man who had just woken from sleep.
"How long have I been in here?"
"Five and a half weeks," Healer Winthrop's voice was quiet, soothing.
"What! Five and…" the voice broke off into coughing. There was the sound of water being poured from a pitcher and the coughing subsided.
"Would you like some more?"
"No, no." Cormac's voice was still raw, but impatience bled through. "Are my parents here? Have you found my mother? Has someone gone to Aunt Susan, helped Da?"
There was a long pause and Hermione could hear more water being poured. Finally Healer Winthrop spoke. "I'm sorry, Cormac. I don't know where your father is. Your mother was found in the Hogsmeade camp. She was already gone. She's buried at Hogwarts."
The silence from the room was almost painful, and then Hermione heard glass smashing. She was considering going into the room to see what had happened when she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of sobbing. After a moment, her curiosity drove her to the door. The sight of Cormac sobbing and calling for his Ma met her eyes. Healer Winthrop caught sight of her and waved her away. Hermione stepped back and quietly pulled the door closed.
She could remember his mother's funeral. At the time, it hadn't seemed strange that Mary McLaggen had been with no one in attendance – so many were. She hadn't even thought to ask where Cormac and his father were. In fact, she had only partially paid attention to the funeral. It had been the second of three burials on a chilly, damp Thursday, and she had been numb to grief by that point. Hermione felt a wave of guilt overwhelm her sympathy for Cormac's loss. This was yet another time she had behaved poorly towards him, even if it was by omission rather than action.
She sank into one of visitor's chairs that dotted the hallway. The sound of Cormac's grief was muffled by the door, a dull, rhythmic keen of mourning and misery. It reminded her of what Healer Winthrop had said about patients who gave up on life. If Cormac hadn't had the fight in him to heal before, what was going to happen to him now? Hermione knew firsthand the pain of not having parents. Hers might be alive, but for all intents and purposes, they were dead to her.
The idea, when it came to her, was both blindingly obvious and hopelessly ambitious. She was going to bring Cormac's father to him. Then Cormac would have someone to live for and would get better. Of course, the part where Hermione knew next to nothing about Cormac's family or where his father might be was a small flaw in the plan. But she was the smartest witch of her generation. How hard could it be?
Present Day
"How are you feeling tonight?" Hermione asked as she set out Cormac's dinner. He was looking well, she thought to herself. Much less tired, for one thing, and the exercises he did during the day had brought colour back to his cheeks.
"Decent," Cormac said as he came to sit by the bedside table. "I'm not having nightmares anymore, so I sleep better."
"That's good." She turned to the bed, beginning her evening routine of changing the linens.
"I am having really strange dreams, though. I wonder if it's something in that sleeping potion they give me."
Hermione smiled to herself. The sleeping potion was nothing more than valerian, chamomile, and honey. Nothing hallucinogenic. Strange dreams were a sign of Cormac's mind working through its confusion. She asked "What sort of dreams?"
"Well, a couple nights ago, I dreamt I was at work at the Ministry, but it wasn't like my actual job. Or really like the Ministry. I was working up in broom charm review, rather than broom testing. I guess it was where I had wanted to go someday, if the War hadn't happened. I had my own office, and an assistant who called me Mr. McLaggen. It was just funny."
"Funny?" she asked, smoothing the blanket into place.
"Well, because I was dreaming of something I'd always wished for. But it felt very real. My assistant's name was Dianthe. She didn't tell me, I just knew it somehow."
"So you're dreaming of your wishes come true?" Hermione turned and sat on the bed so she could watch him.
"Not always," he said, frowning. "Last night I dreamt that my Da was living with me in Uncle Tiberius' flat. He did, for a while, before I had to…" he stopped and took a bite of his sandwich.
"Had to put him in hospital?" she finished.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "But it wasn't from that time. The flat looked different, and Da looked… well, he looked wretched. He was in rough shape, worse than before. He had given up on finding Ma, kept saying she was dead and what was the point of all of it. I guess it was a nightmare, the slow, awful kind."
"I'm sorry, Cormac. That sounds really awful," Hermione stood from the bed. "I hope you sleep better tonight."
"Thanks. Me, too." He finished the last bite of his sandwich and stood. "I hope there's clothes in that bundle," he said, his voice lighter. "I did extra exercises today and I could use a fresh shirt."
Hermione smiled, pleased at his good cheer. "Fresh clothes and a treat, actually."
"A treat?"
"I figured you might want to wash your hair. There's a towel and a comb in there, and extra soap."
Cormac laughed. "Only a girl would think that's a treat!" He held his hands up at her glare. "Not that I'm not grateful. I'm sure I look like a bird's nest."
Hermione rolled her eyes. He wasn't far off – his greasy blond-brown curls were beginning to mat and stick up in tufts. It was a far cry from how he'd looked at Hogwarts, as though he fixed his appearance in every mirror. She had to admit she liked him better disheveled. There was a certain helpless charm to his disarray.
She was pulled from her thoughts by the sight of Cormac stripping off his shirt. Quickly, she turned and sat facing the wall. As was her habit, she carefully folded the bed sheets and pillow case, trying not to picture what was happening behind her. The sound of rustling fabric stopped and she heard water splashing in the basin. Cormac was washing himself. She focused on creating crisp folds to block out the memories of his long muscled body. Images of him – his chest, his thighs, his groin – flashed in her head. She had cleaned him herself those first few days and she'd taken her time with it Cormac was the first man she'd ever seen naked who wasn't a patient. Except that he was a patient and she ought to remember that, rather than recalling how her body had reacted to the sight of him. Even now, just hearing him bathe was enough to make her breasts tighten and her breath quicken.
The sounds of dry cloth on skin brought her back to herself. He was dressing. She waited until the noise stopped before turning around. It was too soon, though. He was still shirtless as he sat on the bed. Her movement drew his attention and he gestured to the basin.
"I'm not sure how to go about this," he admitted. "Washing my hair like this."
Hermione smiled. "Need some help?"
"Please," he said. "I'll just make a mess of it otherwise."
"All right, then," she agreed, happy to feel useful. "This I know how to do. I would wash Harry and Ron's hair for them, when we…" she trailed off, not wanting to reveal too much.
Cormac accepted her reluctance, fortunately. "So what do I do?" he asked.
"You sit on the floor and lean back. I'll put the basin on the stool and get your hair wet that way. Then you can do the soap and I'll help you rinse it out."
He sat down where she indicated and followed her every direction. When it came time to use the soap, he cursed the tangles. Hermione smiled at his frustration, so much like a cranky child's.
"I can comb those out for you," she offered, surprising herself.
"Could you?" he sounded just as surprised. "My Ma used to do it when I was a lad. I'd get impatient and tear at it otherwise. One day, I took the shears to my hair – oh, was she mad!"
"Well, you're safe from shears here," Hermione joked, pleased to hear him talking about his mother without sadness. "But I don't want you tearing your hair out either. Let's rinse out the soap and I'll see what I can do."
She soaked his hair thoroughly, then handed him the towel. As he scrubbed as his head, she packed up the basin, soap, and dinner dishes. When she finished, she found him standing by the bed, towel around his neck but still shirtless. Her eyes traced the scars on his upper body from his months fighting Death Eaters, real and imagined. Heat rose in her cheeks as she noticed Cormac watching her stare at him.
"You're, uh, healing well," she said faintly.
"Thanks to you," he replied with a smile. He held out his hand, the comb lying on his palm. "How do you want to do this?"
"Um, well, why don't I sit here," Hermione walked around him and sat on the edge of the bed. "And you sit on the floor."
He carefully lowered himself onto the floor between her legs. Hermione waited until he had settled with his back against the mattress before reaching out with the comb.
"I'll start with the matted bits, so tell me if it hurts," she said. He nodded his agreement.
As she tilted his head from side to side to reach the tangles, Cormac sat still as a statue beneath her hands. He had hunched his shoulders so that they did not touch her thighs. She appreciated how he was taking such care not to touch her, and it made her feel able to take risks. Like today, washing and now combing his hair.
As she smoothed the comb through his tangle-free hair, an idea came to her. She slid her left hand from his hair to the towel on his shoulder. Then she discarded the comb and returned her right hand to his hair, using her fingers to rake through his curls instead. Cormac seemed to sit straighter, and his hands reached up to grip the ends of towel.
Hermione took a deep breath and moved her hand from the towel to Cormac's neck. She began to gently massage the muscles there. Paradoxically, his neck seemed to become more tense under her fingers, but after a minute, the muscles relaxed and he began to tilt his head to give her better access. She could feel his right shoulder pressing against her leg. As the pressure on her thigh increased, she gave his hair a little tug and he pulled away. She smoothed her hand over his hair again, thanking him.
Her left hand worked on the muscles at the base of his neck. He groaned as she dug her thumb into a particularly tight knot, and shifted his body. This brought him back into contact with her leg, and he began to pull away. Before he could completely straighten, Hermione snagged one of his curls and pulled. He stilled. She smoothed the curl back into place and he relaxed against her, his right shoulder just brushing her thigh.
As they sat in silence, Hermione felt a wave of affections towards Cormac. He was always so careful of her physical space, so respectful. She could only hope he would be so understanding when this was all over.
Spring 2002
Hermione sank into the beige couch. She wrinkled her nose as she looked around the room. Its pastoral paintings and neutral colour scheme reminded her of her parents' reception room. And she knew that getting back out of the couch was going involve some undignified heaving. She hated the place already, and the mental health medi-witch hadn't even shown up.
When she was a mental healer, she told herself, she would have sensible chairs that didn't make the patients feel like children sitting on adult furniture. And she would have colour on her walls, and real windows to the outdoors, rather than cheap paintings. Of course, that was if they let her into the training program in the first place.
She'd made it through the general healers courses, but the mental healing program was three years of specialized training and was notoriously hard to get into. Hermione had passed the entrance exam with top marks. Now all that stood between her and her dream was an evaluation session to make sure she was mentally healthy enough to be a mental healer. The humour was not lost on her, although sitting in this miserably bland little room was dulling her amusement.
By the time Healer Thorndike swept into the room, five minutes late, Hermione was starting to fidget. She stilled herself immediately, not wanting to exhibit nervous behaviour. Thorndike barely seemed to notice her presence, though, as he shoved a stack of parchments across his desk to make room for the stack of books he was carrying. He then came around the desk and rooted through the papers, ignoring Hermione all the while.
She was about to cough or clear her throat to get his attention when he turned and stared down at her.
"So you're after my job, then?" he asked.
Hermione jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. It was a low rumble, more suitable for someone like Hagrid than the beanpole of a man standing in front of her.
"Well?" he asked, stepping towards her and flinging himself into the chair across from the couch.
Hermione hesitated. What was the right answer? Yes, she wanted his job. Or something like it. "I, uh, I want…"
"Come along, girl," Thorndike leaned forwards, waving a roll of parchment in her direction. "If you didn't want my job, you wouldn't be here. Or more to the point, you shouldn't be here. So let's be honest. You want my job. That's fine by me, as long as you're willing to admit it. Can't have any secrets here, you know." And then he winked. It startled her so much she laughed. The Healer grinned at her. "That's better. Let's go again. You're after my job?"
"Yes, I am," Hermione announced.
"Perfect. From now on in, I want you to tell me the truth, even on the hard questions. This room is spelled with every anti-eavesdropping charm you can think of. Even had that Weasley boy in to consult. And I'm the soul of discretion. Swore an oath, you know." He waved his right hand so Hermione could see the charmed tattoo that all healers took to bind them to keep their patient's secrets. "Today we're going to talk about your past. If that goes well, we can talk about your future. Any questions?"
"No questions," Hermione said, shaking her head. She knew that if she "passed" this session, they would begin to plan her training course. "I'm ready."
"Right, then. Let's start with an easy one. Your parents."
She grimaced. Hardly an easy start. Her parents were still in Australia, convinced they'd never had a daughter, and Healer Thorndike knew it. Most of the Wizarding world had heard of "Hermione's sacrifice" from the Daily Prophet and other tabloids.
"How do you feel about cutting them out of your life?"
After the war, she had thought long and hard about repairing her parents' memories but chose not to. It wasn't like the Death Eaters had all laid down their wands after Voldemort fell. There had been attacks in the weeks and months following the Battle. Everyone knew there was no guarantee that there wouldn't be reprisals against members of the Order. Three years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry still travelled with a protective detail. She knew they were safe where they were, and that mattered more to her than them being where she was.
"I think it was the right decision. Being practically orphaned was – and is – safer. It was really hard at first, but it gets easier," she replied carefully.
"Really?" The Healer's expression was skeptical.
No, not really, Hermione thought angrily. She had destroyed her parents' minds and couldn't bring herself to fix them and face their questions. Every additional month that she put it off, the guilt hardened inside of her until she realized she would never undo what she had done. Now she was accustomed to their absence and enjoyed the independence of living without family obligations. She doubted that that attitude would sit well with the Healer, though.
"No," she began, reaching for the answer she used with Ron and Harry, "but I want them to be safe and happy more than I want them here. And I see how Muggleborns who fully embrace the Wizarding lifestyle are cut off from their families. At least this way, they don't miss me."
"So you take on all the hurt, to save them pain? That's very selfless, Hermione, but not the most emotionally healthy attitude." Hermione ducked her head, trying furiously to think of an answer to offset his criticism. Before she could speak, he continued, "Still, I imagine that the events of your teenage years have engrained in you the habit of shouldering others' burdens. It's something you should consider working on with a mental healer." He made a quick note on his scroll. "Right, let's move on to my work-related questions. It's been mentioned that you are not comfortable with the hands-on element of healing."
Shit. Her mind froze. She had no idea how to respond; she hadn't even realized that anyone had noticed.
"So from your panicked expression, I'm going to assume these reports are true. What's going on there?" His voice was kind.
For a long moment, she weighed the chances of bluffing through the answer. She'd fooled him about her parents, why not about this? But a closer look at Healer Thorndike's horsey face, all sympathetic curiosity, changed her mind. She'd never told anyone what had happened, but this ugly, kind man, she could tell him.
"It was the Battle. At Hogwarts," she began. The story poured out of her like black bile.
The Battle raged for hours. She survived the Fiendfyre, stood vigil for the dead, and saw her best friend dead in Hagrid's arms. Then the whole thing with the Hat and the Sword and the snake happened, and the fighting began again. She became separated from Ron in the confusion and ended up dueling with a Death Eater in an alcove near the Great Hall.
She managed to disarm the man, but before she could use a stunner, the wizard rushed her. Hermione found herself wrapped tightly in his arms, the sour smell of his body surrounding her. Her struggles accomplished nothing – he was tall and strong – and he pried her wand from her fingers. As he dragged her along the corridor, she writhed and kicked against him, screaming for help, trying to attract attention.
It must have worked, because she heard a cry of "Petrificus Totalus" and the rush of magic enveloping her captor. Still trapped in the Death Eater's arms, she crashed to the floor with him. Fortunately, the spell had come from one side, or else she would have landed face-first. As it was, Hermione lay on her side, bound by spell-frozen limbs. Again she struggled, but his grip on her was too tight, and his fingers were latched onto her left wrist. She lay in panic, the Death Eater's hot breath panting against her scalp, unable to form an escape plan.
After what seemed like an hour, but was probably minutes, she realized that her right arm was free from the elbow down. It was pinned beneath their bodies, but that could be remedied. Several violent kicks against the floor turned Hermione and her captor until he was on his back and she was draped across his front. The new position shifted their robes and Hermione found that she could twist her right arm towards the hand that held her wand. One painful contortion later and she had her wand.
She quickly cast stupefy and finite incantatum on her captor, rolling from his grasp the instant his arms relaxed. After using binding spell, she shoved him deep into the alcove. Then she ran to the Great Hall, where she found her friends dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange.
"I survived the Battle, sure. I walked about without a single scar." She laughed bitterly. "On the outside. All my damage is all on the inside. I'm not good with being touched. I don't like being too close to people."
Healer Thorndike nodded, a sad smile on his face. "What happened to you was terrible, Hermione. I'm very impressed that even though you have a problem with physical closeness, you decided to go into healing. You're not letting this situation control your life."
Hermione smiled weakly at his approval. He didn't know how wrong he was. The "situation" had controlled her life for the past three years. She had broken up with Ron because she couldn't bear his touch. Her relationship with the Weasley family had become awkward because of their touchy, huggy habits. She still had Harry, but that was only because he was as uncomfortable with physical affection as she was, having so little experience with it.
"I'm sure that with the help of a good mental healer," Thorndike continued, "you will be able to conquer this fear of touch altogether. I do hope that you'll find someone to talk to about it."
"Of course," Hermione replied automatically.
"This leads nicely to our next question," he said, leaning back. "What inspired your choice to go into mental healing? Was it related to your struggle with intimacy?"
"Actually, it was something that happened right after the War," Hermione said. This was comfortable ground, she had explained the story of Cormac McLaggen a hundred times. As she recited the tale, she watched the Healer's reactions. They seemed positive, and when she finished, he sat forward in his chair.
"And you found his father?" he asked, obviously caught up in the tale.
"Yes, I went to Scotland, found his aunt and his father. I undid the memory charms that Cormac had used and brought Iain back to London."
"Wonderful!"
Hermione smiled back at him, but then sighed. "Only for a while. A year ago, Iain McLaggen killed himself," she said sadly. "He never recovered from the depression and paranoia that he suffered during the War."
"What a shame." Thorndike's long face was grave. "We have so many cases of people who are still afflicted by the horrors of the War. It's a great injustice that we don't do more for these poor witches and wizards. Mr McLaggen is another victim of Wizarding Society's desire to sweep the War under the rug and forget it happened."
"So is Cormac," Hermione said. "After his father's death, he started acting strangely. It turned out he was seeing and hearing things. He came into St. Mungo's for treatment – that's when I learned about his father. He's been in and out of the mental healing ward ever since."
"And it's to help people like Cormac, that's why you want to do this?" Healer Thorndike asked.
She nodded, but thought No, I'm going to cure people like Cormac, not just help them.
Harry had teased her about her plans, saying that she was setting herself up on a new quest to save the world. He meant it as a joke, but he was right. She needed this: something to distract her from the fact that she used to have purpose but now all she had were memories and nightmares.