It was morning when it happened.
The windows were open, cool morning air pouring in. It would rain that day, Hermione was thinking as she woke. The sheets were crisp against her skin, smelling fresh, only draped over the bed yesterday.
She stared around their bedroom. There was the small lopsided wooden bookshelf Ron had built when they moved in, only using tools and no magic. Probably wanted to prove something. It didn't matter, she loved it.
There was the rug knitted by Kreacher, fresh flowers from Ginny in the vase, the engagement ring from Ron in a box on the bedside table. Everything was perfect. Ron was next to her, softly snoring, his arm over her bare waist. She pressed herself closer to him.
He was there, finally with the promise of forever. She knew, though, that he was hers forever and she his for quite some time already.
And yet...she had had a bad dream. It was weird. It's been months if not a full year since she'd had any of those. In her sleep, she was back at Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix's knife against her throat, Greyback's breath on her face. Then she was wading through broken glass and her own blood.
She sat up and shook her head. She looked at Ron. Him screaming her name had also echoed in her dream, and now in her head. She bent down to kiss him. His eyes fluttered open and then closed again. He pushed himself toward her, his chest, sweaty from sleeping, pressed to hers.
"Hermione..." he mumbled, a sound somewhere between a question and a moan. She liked that better than the screaming.
He pulled her closer, kissing her with closed, sleepy eyes and she wanted him badly in that flash of a moment, to drink him in, sink into him whole. She responded to Ron's kiss with passion that lit up her soul and charged the air around them with magic and love and desire. She wanted to keep this moment still, stay in it forever, because life was unexpected and happiness fleeting. And this felt like a goodbye.
Something in her mind stirred, like a snake uncoiling. An instinct, a premonitory sense, that something was wrong.
"Ouch," Ron yelped, opening his eyes wide when a spark passed between their lips. Her magic was acting up again. Something was definitely wrong.
The wind coming inside picked up, rippling the curtains. The next moment, their window shattered, glass exploding into their bedroom. Ron swore loudly and was out of the bed in an instant, wand pulled from beneath the pillow in his hand. Hermione couldn't find hers. How stupid. But she could deal without it by now.
There were people in the house, she could hear them. Someone was trying to get up the stairs, a hooded figure burst in through the broken window. She was scared only for a moment, the dream and the memory still fresh in her mind, but then she got angry.
Ron tried to block the door with a spell, but there were more people on the other side and the power of their curse blew the door open, sending Ron flying back. Hermione uttered a wandless spell under her breath, sending a surge of wind with shards of glass upon the intruders. It cut them and made them stumble, but without her wand it just wasn't as strong.
She felt the other figure grab her arm, twist it painfully. The scar on her neck pained her as she strained against the grip. She quickly thought of a version of the Incendio charm, shrieking it loudly, without wand and control, and then she felt her skin was on fire and burnt the man holding her as well. He shouted as he snatched his arms back. Twisting around, Hermione saw a flash of a face. That glimpse triggered a memory. The memory of the towering fires of Fiendfyre wrapped itself around her mind, she could almost smell the flesh burning again.
Turning her head around, she saw Ron struggling from the ground as the two other attackers were wrestling him to the ground. His eyes were on her, desperate. She wanted to run to him, but she was grabbed from behind and felt the other person drag her by the hair backwards. Before she could attempt anything, a powdery substance was thrown in her face, travelling through her nostrils into her throat, burning on the way like cigarette smoke and stale fire whiskey.
The last thing she heard was the sound of a wand snapping and Ron screaming her name, again. The sound of it triggered awake a madness she thought she had buried long ago. She felt magic come forth from her, uncontrolled and unbridled, exploding through her skin. And then there was nothing.
...Somewhere else, some other time, some other life...
Chapter 1- Living in a Lie
Chelsea hummed a song to herself emptying a box of freshly delivered comic books onto a bell on the door tinkled and she looked up, expecting to see a customer, but when she saw who it truly saw, the corners of her mouth turned up into a radiant smile.
"What are you doing here? If I had a day off, I would spend the whole morning in bed," she said, smiling at the man that walked in. He bustled in all carefree and grinning. Ginger hair fell into his eyes, freckles dotting his skin. A small sigh escaped Chelsea as she took him in, tall as he was, hands in his pockets, his shirt hugging his muscles a little too tightly for her comfort.
"Hey," he said. Ron walked over to her and began helping. Each comic he grabbed, he inspected the covers.
"Oh look, this one's about wizards." He showed the comic to Chelsea, it had a yellow-faced witch on the cover shooting lightning out of her palms. "A nice break from all the superhero stuff, no?"
"Sure, sure, but you're messing up my categories here," she said, taking the comic book back and placing it on its proper place.
"How's your story coming along?" he asked, leaning against the shelves. Chelsea knitted her eyebrows and bit her lip.
"I've been feeling a bit uninspired lately," she said with a sigh. "I don't know, I feel like it's been all drawn before, you know? I long to add some new element to it...something to make it more dynamic, like movement. A video on a page." She laughed shortly. "It sounds ridiculous. Why wouldn't you just watch a film then, right?"
Ron paused to imagine it. Moving pictures within their frames in an endless loop. Images and figures flashing in and out of their frames. He was a little surprised at how easy it was for him to imagine it.
"I can totally see it in my mind, Chels, you don't know what technology will look like in a few years' time. Just you keep drawing, that's important."
After Ron got himself a job at the local comic book store, he found out that Chelsea didn't only like to read and sell comic books, she also liked to draw them. She was a reluctant hidden artist, dreaming of becoming a real one, but too scared to admit it to herself. He liked her sketches and story ideas, they were fun, full of magic and wizards.
Ron didn't remember himself being much of a reader. Books and their clunky text always overwhelmed him. It was only here that he discovered he actually loved stories in the visual form. After he pored through almost every old-fashioned and cheesy issue of the old timey superhero stuff, he dove into the newer and bolder graphic novels. Novels that painted a world full of darkness and wonder, something beyond the ordinary, beautiful and sinister. He had often wanted to live in a world like that, felt he almost belonged there within the pages.
"Hey, Mr. Dreamer!" Chelsea's jab in the shoulder and voice brought him back out of his muddled thoughts. "You still haven't responded to me...what are you doing here on your day off?"
"I woke up early and realized my fridge is empty, so I had to go and get some beakfast. I don't like to lay in bed hungry."
But the truth went a bit deeper. Ron hated being alone. He didn't like his tiny flat and the emptiness within. He liked working, being in the store, reading stories and chatting to customers. If he had a day off, he often found he had nothing to do and he just ended up feeling terribly lonely and out of place.
"And I always like to see you, of course," he added.
As much as Chelsea tried, she couldn't prevent her cheeks from turning red. This happened every time she and Ron joked around, were close or just smiled at each other. She couldn't help herself, couldn't help feeling a deep affection toward this funny, good and high-spirited man. Ever since they began working together, Chelsea's feelings for Ron had grown stronger and stronger.
She didn't have any idea what he felt for her. Ron was one big mystery, not only to her, but to everybody around. He didn't like to talk about himself or his past and family; sometimes it seemed he didn't know what to talk about and rather remained silent.
"Earth to Chelsea...it's rude to ignore your mates when they come by to see you," he laughed.
Breaking back to reality, Chelsea noticed Ron's hand waving in front of her face, his expression amused. Grinning slightly, Chelsea ran a hand through her hair.
"Sorry, I got lost in thought. Anyway, I have a free evening…how about going out to see a movie?" she offered happily, hoping Ron would agree.
Furrowing his eyebrows, Ron tapped his chin. "Hmm, I don't know…you know…my calendar is full…Being me has its disadvantages, what with all the attention and work I have. What do I gotta do to get some personal space?"
Laughing, Chelsea threw the now empty carton box at him. Ron let it drop to the ground and jumped inside the box.
"See, this is me, besieged by all my social obligations."
She laughed some more. She knew it was all playful irony, as it was well-known Ron was a bit of a loner.
"Okay then…let's go see that movie," he said suddenly, his tone a bit more even, a bit more serious perhaps.
Feeling as though she just hovered a few inches above the ground, Chelsea tried not to look too happy. Ron stayed to help her unload another box. Chelsea turned pink every time their arms brushed against each other. She was starting to think the silence was getting awkward.
"Ron? Tell me some childhood stories. I mean, you must've been a very goofy kid," grinned Chelsea, thinking that childhood stories couldn't ruin anything. She expected Ron to start speaking excitedly, but to her surprise he leaned an arm against the shelf and furrowed his eye brows. Looking confused, Ron held his chin in his fingers, this time really looking thoughtful. "Ron?"
"You won't believe this, but…I don't remember any."
Wincing, Chelsea fixed her eyes upon him, thinking it was another of his jokes, but he looked quite serious.
"Really," continued Ron, shrugging his shoulders. "I mean, as I try to remember, there are some clouded moments, but I cannot quite…remember. I see images and some faces I don't recognize, but…that's all."
"What? How about your parents? Siblings? Friends? Are you suffering from amnesia?" she asked jokingly, but soon realized it might've been the cause.
"Um, well…" His voice trailed off and a sad emptiness entered his eyes. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Sorry," Chelsea said quietly, avoiding his gaze. She cursed herself for bringing it up.
Ron was looking at his watch. "Yes. So anyway, I'll be going. Meet you at seven, bye!" Without any further ado, Ron left, but before that, he pressed a small butterfly kiss on Chelsea's cheek, who suddenly forgot all about the awkward situation and Ron not answering her questions. .
Ron took in a deep breath as he exited the store. He could feel his chest was getting tight and constricted in there. Walking down the streets of Edinburgh, Ron couldn't stop thinking about what had just occurred. It wasn't the first time someone had asked him about his past and he genuinely had no answers to give. He didn't want people think he was crazy, a loon, one of those that claimed they had been kidnapped and probed by aliens. He certainly didn't need that. He had almost no memories. He actually didn't even remember how he began working at his job, living at his flat. All he remembered was just that he…did.
Most of the times, Ron was able to ignore this. He was living his comfortable life, enjoying every single day, ignoring the ever-growing anxiety of being so strangely and sometimes terrifyingly lost. There were the stories in the comic books, there were drinks and good food and music, and there was also Chelsea. Things were okay. He was just an ordinary bloke, gong through a bit of an identity crisis. Who wasn't these days?
As Ron thought about everything, he didn't notice that he walked carelessly into the road and his mind, and personal world, was suddenly interrupted and shattered when a car hit him. He didn't even feel the pain, everything just went black.
"Jean, Jonathan is here. Should I let him in?" A young woman sitting behind a desk, looked up from her papers to the redhead in the doorway. She was alone in the nurses ward, piles of files all around her.
"Really?" she asked with a sigh, leaning back into her chair. Her brown bushy hair was in a state of frenzy and her brown eyes looked tired but alert. "Well, I guess you can let him in. Thanks Sheila."
"Okay then," replied Sheila and disappeared behind the door. Jean stood up and strode over to a small mirror resting on a shelf loaded with heavy binders full of paperwork. Upon seeing her reflection, she just rolled her eyes and pulled her thick hair into a neat bun. Right that moment a tall, handsome, dark haired man walked in, wearing a suit. He was carrying a box in his arms and a sombre expression upon his face.
"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual. He set the box on top of the desk in front of Jean. "This should be everything."
Jean gave him a polite nod and looked inside the box. A couple of shirts, sweater, washed sets of underwear, neatly folded, and a toothbrush.
"What about my-"
"I'll send the books by my assistant later today, it was three heavy boxes, Jean," he replied, with a hint of annoyance. Jean settled back into her chair and avoided his gaze, instead looking around the room guiltily.
"You could've just sent this box along as well," she said, trying not to sound too ruthless, but games weren't something she had time for.
"Nothing escapes you, does it" he replied icily and stood up abruptly. "Well, if you really want to rub it in...I wanted to see you, maybe for one last time? You see, this break-up came as a sort of surprise to me, I thought things were going fine."
"Yes, things were fine, but a little too fine, and a little too fast."
"A little too fine? What's that supposed to even mean? You're leaving me because we were doing great, because I was good to you?"
"I tried to explain this to you many times, and you would never listen, you never hear me out, just dismiss whatever I try to express to you that doesn't suit you. We have different opinions about what 'doing great' means."
"Dismiss what? You claiming you feel like a changeling, that your life somehow doesn't fit? You think you're special just because you're having a bit of an existential crisis like every other person out there-"
"This is it, this is exactly it...I'm done, I don't have to explain myself to you any more. I'm busy."
Jonathan was about to snap something back, but the finality of her last statement solidified him to the ground. He stared at her, almost purple in the face, but from the little time he spent with this woman, he knew there was no point arguing with her. He didn't know how.
"Fine, have it your way. Be alone, that's what you do best." He put his hands into his pockets, turning for the door. "Can I have my key back?"
Without a word, Jean stood up and strode to her purse and took out a set of keys. In one swift movement she pulled his key off the hook and handed it to him.
"Jonathan, I really am sorry, for my part in this whole mess," she said quietly, and she meant it. But he just scoffed and shook his head sadly.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. Take care," he mumbled, and as easy as that, he was out the door and out of her life. Jean leaned with her back against the door and sighed somewhat sadly, but on the whole it was a sigh of relief.
He had been a nice enough man, intelligent, well-to-do, an engaging personality, and still she couldn't make it work in her mind. Things in her life were hard to explain, even more so since it was quite an ordinary life she had. She had tried to explain it to him, how sometimes she would get a sinking feeling of being so disconnected from her life and reality she would stumble. How on some mornings she would wake up and struggle to remember who she actually was. How even her relationship with Jonathan, the first serious relationship she ever remembered having, felt like living in a lie.
"That's it then? No more Mr. Handsome Lawyer guy?" Sheila remarked with raised eyebrows, as they walked down the hospital corridor toward the coffee machine in the corner.
"I'm afraid not. I feel better this way. It's the only way I can ever maintain a feeling of normalcy, not having to deal with conflicting feelings of being with someone I don't feel connected to."
"Maybe you just haven't found the right one."
"Maybe it's not necessary to, at all. I don't want to have to find someone to feel complete. I kind of have to figure this on my own," Jean said, depositing the coins into the machine and crossing her arms as the pop of the plastic cup falling out of the machine announced her coffee was on the way.
Shrugging, Sheila didn't say anything. She heard enough about Jean's feelings of incompleteness and feeling torn and out of touch from the life she had. She had very little to offer except understanding. Wasn't everyone in this time lost, one way or the other? Jean grabbed her coffee and inhaled it gratefully, stepping aside to let Sheila get her drink, but the shrieking of the ambulance sounded from the distance, getting closer and closer. Suddenly a pair of wheels screeched in front of the main sliding doors and the paramedics burst in, pushing injured people in front of them.
"A car accident in the centre…this one's really injured!" He referred to a man that laid on the bed, his blazing red hair sprawled around the blue pillow with his head bleeding. For a fraction of a second, the world around her didn't reach Jean. She just stared at the man blankly, feeling a bit strange and dizzy. Suddenly her head began to hurt and her eyes water. Without realizing, Jean dropped her coffee cup to the floor and felt herself dragged to the side by Sheila, out of the way of the paramedics.
She was drinking in the man's appearance, his long nose and freckles dotting his skin, and a desperate urge to run to him and help him overcame her so swiftly her knees buckled.
Doctors swooped in from nearby offices and corridors and were already tending to the unconscious man on the stretcher. Sheila went to pull Jean away from the scene, but Jean wouldn't budge. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to look away as faint buzzing filled her head. Seconds later, however, the doctors with the patient disappeared behind sliding doors. She was left there, standing in the pool of the spilled coffee, feeling like something precious had been taken away from her.