She did not know where she was.
Hermione wandered around empty corridors, the only signs in the darkness the dim red lights indicating EXIT and hugged herself to try and put a stop to the cold. She was cold all the time these days, and she did not know why. There was a nudging feeling inside her that there was a lot she did not have a why to. The thought was foreign and disturbed her greatly.
Not a sound but that of her own footsteps. An empty dining room and what appeared to be an empty recreation area. It took the shining beacon of a cubicle labeled Nurse's station for her to understand where she was, although she still did not have an inkling as to how she'd got here.
Her usually active and whirring mind was dull and unresponsive, as though she had been drugged. Had she been drugged? She thought she had been sleeping, and stifled a yawn as though in answer.
And then, the images started to come back to her. Slowly at first, and then all at once like a levee of violence, screaming, accusations and glass shattered upon the floor.
Her body felt leaden. All she wanted to do was sleep. As though able to pick up the transmissions of her mind the nurse soon spotted her and with one firm hand upon her arm, escorted her back to her room and to a cold and comfortless bed.
Inside the bounds of the hospital was safety. Safety in the protocol sheets plastered to windows and walls and safety in the five-inch doors meant to provide extra quiet and security.
As safe as sardines rolled up in a tin, she thought as she made her rounds down the now familiar corridor, dodging the windmilling arms of a screaming patient as two nurses ran after him with leather bindings.
When she asked how long she had to stay there, the nurses were not forthcoming.
"You will have to be assessed by the doctor first. We can't say anymore."
She waited for this mysterious doctor to arrive, flipping numb-brained through house and home magazines that seemed to be scattered everywhere in the lounge, next to the half-coloured colouring books, and on the fifth day, he did.
"Hermione Weasley?"
The crayon she had been holding slipped through her fingers onto the linoleum floor. The man's shoes were an expensive pair of Oxford's,polished to gleaming just like his smile.
"My name is Dr. Riddle. I will be monitoring your recovery during your stay at Hogwarts Memorial.
She managed to nod all through his next round of questioning: everything from her history of smoking to how many pets she owned (two spaniels: Rex and Shepherd.) By way of conversation, she learned he owned one pet snake, a python by the name of Nagini.
"Less chance of shedding" and the designer suit beneath his doctor's coat was indeed spotless.
"When do I get to leave?" she repeated, eyeing the couple of stragglers already loitering by the microwave in the corner, shuffling feet, dead eyes, searching for any errant packets of hot chocolate the nurses had not already packed away.
"I'm afraid that is entirely up to you. With a condition as severe as yours, however, we like to keep an eye on patients for at least a couple of weeks."
She stared at him as dead-eye and hollow as she felt inside, feeling a prickle of satisfaction when he shifted in his seat with discomfort. He really was too good-looking for a place like this. She noted the dark hair and dark eyes absentmindedly; he looked as though he had stepped right off the set of a luxury perfume commercial.
"I can't stay here for another few weeks" she remarked. Her voice sounded separate from herself and she had the sudden image of herself as a large stuffed puppet, mouth gobbling as though on a pivot and attempting to speak. When was the last time she had laughed at anything? She could not recall.
"You may not need to. If you play your cards right."
"When do I get to speak to my husband?"
"I have already spoken to Mr Weasley on the telephone, and he was quite firm that you receive the best treatment we have to offer, to avoid an, ah, repeat of the incident that brought you here."
Hermione cringed at the memory that approached her like the headlight of a car on the freeway and blinked hard to make it disappear. She did not want to remember. She did not want to think about much at all: something so unlike her she felt a nudge of fear at the realization.
His hand was suddenly upon hers, white fingers cool to the touch and as slender as that of a pianist. She wanted to lean into his dark eyes and his smile, which suggested warmth, earnestness…
"Don't worry, Hermione. You're in safe hands now."
"Sweetheart I missed you so much."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably against the unexpected warmth of a stubbly cheek pressed up against her own. When Ron stepped away from the hug his watery blue eyes were even more moist than usual.
"Cheers" he accepted the tray the nurse brought their way with an easy affability she had always envied in him, and Hermione made a show of downing the black liquid in the paper cup (supposedly tea) more for show than anything else.
"You've lost weight. Haven't they been feeding you here? Just joking" he said quickly when he saw her shoulders tense.
"Nice place this" and he cast a precursory glance around the room, nodding approvingly at the big screen tv on the wall. "Get good reception?"
Hermione scoffed. There was only so much you could watch of BBC news before you felt your brain liquify inside your skull.
"That bad, huh?" He replied when she said as much. "Oh, before I forget—"
The sight and smell of the lasagne was a welcome one considering the endless rounds of moist peas and carrots the nurses seemed intent on shovelling into their bodies.
"Mum misses you very much, by the way. And Ginny, and Harry and everyone else."
"Do they know what happened?" She asked cautiously.
"The basics, yeah. Listen, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"Good" she replied coldly, feeling the prickle of guilt return at the way his face fell. She resorted to official language instead.
"I just mean it might not be conducive to my recovery. At present."
"Of course, yeah."
Empty styrofoam cups sat sadly between them—another memory of whiskey glasses and candles, anniversary dinner sidling for her attention—as she listened to his droning it's not your fault, it's mine and we can fix this together. How like him it was to twist even her illness into something about himself. Although, if she were to be honest with herself, he was not half wrong.
Because it was all his fault.
His and his blasted family hounding her for the last six years, not letting her have a moment to herself, not a moment to catch her breath between the constant criticism—everything from her appearance to her abilities as a housewife. Mrs Weasley needlingher on and on about how hard she works at the Labour Party and wouldn't it be nice to take some time off, dear? Large beetle eyes shining with the real meaning of give me some grandchildren, why don't you. It was no use trying to explain how much the people in government needed her—she was projected to be the next deputy leader candidate for Dumbledore's Labour Party for Christ's sake!—or, more importantly, how much she loved her job. It was Ronniekins this and Ronniekins that. Her precious failure of a son who could not even get enough shifts at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (joke shop, and family-owned at that) to make ends meet.
And now here he was, tail tucked in between his legs for more information to report to that sly loud-mouthed witch of a mother. Yes, she had had a psychotic break, and what about it? It was his entire family who should have had a check-up long ago.
"That's it? You don't have anything else to say?"
The temperature in the room was rapidly plummeting. Ron's ferrety eyes darted around the room, as though searching for a distraction.
"I thought we weren't going to talk about—"
"—not even going to apologize then?—"
"—apologize, when you're the one that went off the rails? You must still be bonkers."
"Say that again—"
"You fed our wedding ring to the dog!"
"Oh, so you think you can just bring a few trifles and everything will be ok again? Your mother knows the truth, doesn't she?" She nudged the glass tupperware of lasagne still on the table. "That's why you brought this?"
Ron's eyes widened when he realized what she was going to do. "Don't—"
The result of the impact of tupperware against wall was a loud crunch as glass shattered, the contents making a mess of pasta and sauce all over the—no longer—bleached white wall.
It was impossible for the altercation not to attract notice now: a few patients already hung around the skirts of the lounge, too afraid to come closer but not afraid to give whoops of encouragement at the unfolding drama. Hermione ignored them, except one lone figure who was not so easy to ignore.
He was stood by the large windows and his eyes were as piercing upon her as the thousands of shards still upon the floor.
Dr. Riddle.
She felt a sudden thrill of animosity; if he wanted to enjoy the show he should have bought a fucking ticket!
As though reading her mind, he raised his hands together, amused eyes still locked on hers, in a mock show of applause.
She lunged at where he was stood, only for her target to be obstructed by starched white linen. The nurses were on her before she could blink. She only managed a few well aimed kicks—rabbit-faced nurse unsuccessful at dodging the one that landed on her stomach—before she felt the ice prick of a needle against the nape of her neck, and she was out cold.
Hermione's outstretched hands spanned the ceiling like the fingers of a dybbuk. She felt possessed, and yet light as a bird at the same time without the presence of the wretched wedding ring. She felt, strangely, as though she had exchanged one evil for a more potent one. An evil capable of putting the world upon a pivot: the selfsame motion of her own turbulent soul.
She had not envisioned sorting out the pitfalls of her marriage in the confines of a psych ward, but here she was.
She rubbed her aching temples wearily. She knew she had been working too hard, but who might have known stress could have such devastating effects? And yet she wanted to heave at the thought of standing down for the race for the new deputy leader of Labour,letting that wily Parvati Patil fill her position. She may have had a foothold with the South Asian demographic, but she could never rival her when it came to the nitty gritty organizational skills needed to run an entire party.
She had a queer thought: what if she was dreaming now, and didn't know it? Who could recognize the dream while they were still dreaming?
"Hermione? May I speak to you?"
Dr. Riddle stood by the door, a clipboard tucked under his arm, as though he had just completed his rounds. She righted her position in the bed.
"Will you follow me to my office?"
The room in question was strangely bare, white and impersonal as a monk's cell. Hermione had the vision of the flat of a former boyfriend, four walls and a stained mattress on the floor and being proudly steered towards a sole video game console on the floor. Rate my setup indeed.
"Are you comfortable? Would you like something to drink?"
She shook her head. She had had enough of the hospital's drinks to last a lifetime.
"Suit yourself" he replied before reaching into a mini freezer at his foot for what appeared to be a personal stash of Coca pulled on the tab with a fizzy pop.
He took a long swig before beginning. "Shall we talk about your behaviour yesterday?"
"There's nothing to say."
He raised a single well groomed eyebrow. "Oh? Would you say you are inured to violence then?"
She narrowed her eyes. A pad of paper was open before him but he was not yet taking notes. Thus far he was only attempting to gauge her personality.
"Only when it's necessary."
"Such as?"
The memory of her stilettoed heel driving into the calf of a plump woman, blonde chignon coming undone as her head knocked hard against the bathroom mirror.
"Office drama comes to mind."
"Ha! Yes, I reckon that would be useful. I was thinking of a more recent propensity for it. Would you like to talk about how you arrived here, Hermione?"
No, was her knee-jerk response. She gritted her teeth as she examined his ready and eager expression. He gave her the impression of one of Santa's little elves, the highest paid one in the workshop payroll, always eager to judge the naughty from the nice.
Well, if he wanted her secrets he would have to work for them.
"You're not married."
The offending hand twitched in response, ring finger conspicuously bare.
"I am not."
"Then excuse me Dr. Riddle, but how on earth are you to understand?"
He recoiled slightly, as though he were used to getting his way without much fuss.
"Try me. I have been told I have a particularly gifted imagination."
You fed our wedding ring to the dog!
She knew what she had wanted to respond with. She had found the lacy black evidence sure enough, under the bed during a twice-weekly round of vacuuming. And Mrs Weasley still whinged on about the state of her home. Fat cow.
"Have you ever trusted someone with every fibre of your being? Would have done anything for them, only for them to pay you back in—in—lies and deceit?"
"I can't say I've been lucky enough to meet a person to trust so freely. I never knew my parents, you see."
He did not appear particularly sorry about it. Nevertheless she apologized. He nodded in gracious acknowledgement. When he next spoke his words were weighed with care.
"Betrayal, however, is a powerful emotion. It can drive those who feel it to heights of strength and skill they might have never realized they possessed. Would you say you feel that strength now?"
She was of the mind that she was not there to expand upon her CV. When she said as much he gave a staccato little laugh.
"You ought to know better Hermione—every opportunity is a potential one for freedom."
"What are you, my guardian angel?"
In the distance she could hear muffled screaming. Dr. Riddle simply flipped callously through the pages of his notepad, as though long accustomed to it.
"Not an angel, no. A professional. I am here to save you from yourself."
A pause, and then:
"I would like to cut down on the antipsychotics you're on. Decrease your dosage from 1 mg to 0.5 mg, and then eliminate them altogether."
She blinked. "I thought I was here to get well."
"Oh but you are well already, Hermione. You just don't realize it yet."
When she next awoke her room was cold and dark. She could not recall how she had got there.
When she was not watching the icicles out the window drip into an early spring she slept. Ten to twelve hours at a time. And when she slept, she dreamt.
She was sat on a playground bench, head resting on a freckled shoulder. Children played all around her and Ron, squealing with delight as they chased each other from the slide to the monkey bars. In her hand was a crumpled note written in curt no-nonsense language that declared her infertile. Third checkup at the clinic: no doubts about it any longer.
So it was her who was the root of the problem, although she hesitated to label it a problem at all. She was otherwise young and healthy, career about to take off. In the office her epithet was the madame. She was respected if not well-liked. So what if she could not have children of her own? The whole thing was one of society's scams anyways, a scheme to make women conform. Stop them from banding together, rising up in the ranks of their chosen careers. If she wanted a couple of foul smelling messes to run after she would have taken her dogs to the park.
Ron refused to meet her eyes, as though afraid she would shatter if he did so. She bit down on her tongue and tasted irritation: how could he still know her so little after all this time? Her rational mind told her he was projecting his own pain onto her, just like he had projected his desire for children.
Just imagine how nice it'll be, you and I as mum and dad.
Ron had never had a stellar relationship with his own parents, she was aware, always the overlooked youngest son. There was no love lost between her and the rest of the Weasley siblings (she seemed, for whatever reason, to rub them the wrong way), but there could be no doubt he had no hope of measuring up to his successful animal breeder brother, or football star younger sister.
You know what your problem is, Hermione? You're a bitch!
At least she knew what she wanted, and had the guts to go after it. If she'd had a pound for all the complaining he did about George's antics at the shop she would have had enough to pay back their debts and buy herself a new wardrobe to spare.
The truth was simple: he was holding her back from greater things. She imagined herself as the deputy leader of Labour, being clapped onto the podium to deliver important items of Albus Dumbledore's government. Smiling faces, cameras flashing. The sound of her stilettos echoing down the long halls of Westminster.
She knew she had what it takes: she had been told as much from Dumbledore himself. One of their private sessions, whiskey, loosened ties and loosened tongues. I couldn't have done this without you, Hermione. She knew what people whispered in the office, of course, nothing but idle gossip. As if she would have to perform something as crude as sex to get what she wanted.
Bored and slightly irritated, she noticed the few tears that sprinkled the park bench next to her bare knee, tanned from her sunbathing sessions in the backyard (they were too broke for the proper Mediterranean holiday she hankered after.) Perhaps she should have been mourning, the same as him, but she could not conjure up any emotion besides the irritation that was growing less and less faint by the minute.
Her mind had just wandered to what she ought to cook for dinner, when a familiar voice chimed in next to her.
How about chicken risotto?
She blinked in recognition at the dark figure the doctor cut on the park bench. Ron had disappeared.
Good riddance, he muttered beside her before lighting himself a cigarette with the click of a lighter. He took a leisurely inhale before handing her the lighter.
Thanks. She dug through her purse and helped herself to a cigarette of her own. They sat for a few minutes, smoking in amiable silence before it occurred to either of them to speak.
What do you know about Charles Babbage's analytical engine, Hermione?
She shook her head.
One of the first instances of computer programming in the world. Think what it might have meant for the human imagination of its time. A machine that makes possible patterns otherwise too complex for computation, parallel processing, iteration, pulse-shaping. A machine like a loom weaving strands together that might otherwise have never met.
Sounds like pure chance.
He looked at her, eyes narrowed, a small smile dangling like the cigarette still between his lips.
Not chance, no. Mathematics. Or have you already forgotten what I told you about playing your cards?
And then, she was smiling back at him. A small curve of the lip, but it was enough.
Hermione tried the doors along the corridor, white plaster walls, anonymous, for the office she knew was nestled somewhere in between. Name cards of the other patients' rooms watched her go: Allie, Aidan, Rebecca, Jaime…
Finally the right door opened of its own accord, but she was not ready for what she found on the other side.
"May I help you?"
The woman was tall, taller on the black heels she wore underneath her tailored pant suit. She had a plumpish kind looking face, features poised forward as though in a state of constant curiosity. Her dyed red hair was tucked away in a ballerina's bun away from her face. She could not have been much older than she was.
"Um, I was looking for doctor—"
And that's when she noticed the name plate above the gunmetal grey door: Dr. Theresa Riddle, M.D.
Without a word, Hermione broke into a run.
"Hermione!"
She could hear the woman—the stranger, the alien—calling after her as though she knew her. But that was impossible. Which only meant one thing—
They were starting to converge, and she had to get out of there before it was too late.
She managed to make it to her room just in time, slamming the door in a loud bang behind her. She was on her knees in an instant, hands groping along the floor for what she knew was there—for what had to be there.
A small hole in the wall revealed itself, and she extracted a lighter from the confines, the same shiny metal one as in her dream. Please, this has to work.
She found the waste paper bin in her room, filled to the brim with discarded sketches and pages from errant colouring books. The paper ignited in a single spark. She balanced precariously, one foot on standard issue chair and the other on standard issue desk to reach the fire alarm whose white disc surface had assumed the pitted shape of the moon above her head on the many nights she had lain awake unable to sleep, strapped to her bed to keep her safe, as the nurses claimed.
If she wanted to get out of here, she had to open up the sky herself.
The sprinklers were activated within seconds, and Hermione found herself drenched from head to toe. She threw away the consumed husk of the bin into the corner before making a run for it.
It seemed the other patients had thought the same thing. Hermione dodged a shirtless skinny woman in the process of disposing herself of her hospital trousers. An elderly man she had only spied immobile in bed was now dancing under the rain like a savage.
The nurses' station was in disarray as nurses struggled to make phone calls or control the riot about to take place outside the glass doors. There was not a moment to spare: Hermione made a run for the doors leading out of the psych ward at the very moment the power went out, and the usual prison-grade metal doors gave under the weight of her shoulder with a single click.
She was out, she was out she was out! She suppressed the hysterical giggle as she continued to run down the corridors, her bare feet making a wet slapping sound as she navigated the hauntingly bare maternity wing. The night shift nowhere to be seen—had they evacuated already? She was not so familiar with this section of the hospital and scrambled for a few minutes making turns down familiar looking corridors that culminated in dead-ends or equipment closets. It was only when she finally spied a glowing red EXIT sign in the dark that the lights suddenly came back on.
She scampered like an insect exposed.
She had to hurry now—beyond the floor length glass windows she could already see a fire engine pulling into the parking lot—it would not be long before the building was flooded with their kind.
They are not like you and I. A familiar voice echoed inside her head. We're different.
With a loud bang and a crash she finally made it outside. Night air flooded inside her lungs like a drug, like freedom. She inhaled deep, and then continued running.
Thank you, Collette. A grisly scene, here in London. It was in the hours of 9 to 10 AM that the body of Ronald Weasley, a local business owner was discovered at his home in Enfield. The evidence indicates no signs of breaking and entry, although the copious amounts of blood found on the scene as well as a potential weapon has compelled police to view the death as suspicious and are imploring any potential eyewitnesses to come forward. The victim's wife, Mrs Hermione Weasley was unavailable for comment.
They will never be able to touch you again.
Hermione nodded eagerly to the reflection on the bus window—a reflection that was not her own but showed the profile of a handsome dark haired man under neon lights.
They would never catch her again.