Dr. Hermione Granger rubbed her hand over her tired eyes, and stifled a tired yawn. She glanced at the aluminum clock on the wall.
'5:30 – time to go home,' she thought to herself. Taking a glance at her surroundings, the young woman began tidying up her oak-colored desk, shuffling papers into piles here and there. One pile was for Marie, the secretary. She would give her those papers tomorrow morning. The other pile consisted of charts for Hermione work on the next morning. And another pile, the last, was for her to take and work on at home.
'Routine,' the woman thought to herself. Every night she took work home with her. And every night the pile sat on her kitchen table, completely untouched, ready to be brought back completely intact the next morning.
Hermione took hold of her papers to take home, stuffed them haphazardly in her sack, took her white coat from the golden hook off the back of her office door, and shut off the light, never even bothering to give a second glance at her workspace.
Marie had left for the evening. The floor was completely desolate: quiet, calm, no screaming children or whining adults.
Hermione continued down the hallway towards the elevator, stopping in front of the cream colored doors, and pushed the 'down' button alongside the lift. She heard the groaning of the elevator floors below, as it took its time getting to the third floor. While the woman stood silently, she looked down at her slightly worn-out shoes. They showed no evidence of today's events, and Hermione was grateful that the clogs cleaned up so nicely. She made a mental note to purchase the same pair in a black color. Or perhaps gray if black was sold out.
The elevator doors opened slowly, and the woman entered into the lift, pressing '1' as she turned back around to face the doors. The elevator groaned and creaked all the way to the first floor, where Hermione exited the lift and made her way towards the exit of the hospital. Passing once again through the triage area, she noticed a woman sitting patiently with a young boy in one of the waiting rooms. The woman looked tired, worn. She kept an arm around the little boy next to her. But it wasn't the way the mother looked, or the way the boy coughed and sniffled that got Hermione's attention.
It was the little boy's hair. Red as the sunset.
Hermione unconsciously slowed her pace to take a look at the obviously unwell child, taking notice only to the boy's hair. It was just as similar, just as unruly as a head of hair she had known long ago. The same hair that belonged to someone she had loved…and lost.
Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, before quickening her pace and exiting through the glass doors.
The evening temperature took her by surprise. It was a bit on the chilly side. Too chilly for an August night. However the young woman shrugged it off, mentally noting that she had not checked the weather for today, and if she had, a sweater would have most definitely come in quite handy.
Treading quietly to the car, Hermione smiled inwardly. She was glad to be going home. Glad to be going to an empty house where she could remain in her welcoming solitude for the evening. A cup of tea would be in order, and as the young doctor strode to her car, she could already taste the bitter brew of her favorite flavor.
Hermione opened the back door of the car. Throwing her white coat over the back seat, she then proceeded to place her satchel next to her coat. Unfortunately, the young woman had forgotten to clasp the flap of her bag, and the papers Hermione had intended to bring home had spilled from the seat onto the floor.
'Brilliant' she thought to herself.
Hermione bent over to reach for the strewn papers. Amongst the casualties was a gray napkin with a phone number of a local house cleaning service, a few research articles here and there, a drawing of a horse (or what she perceived to be a horse) from one of her youngest patients, and finally a tiny blue-colored slip of paper which Hermione was surprised to see.
Before even taking a closer look at the paper, her browed furrowed.
'Oh, don't even tell me-' she spoke out loud, obviously displeased at her finding.
And as Hermione picked up the paper, she recognized in a second what it was, and just who it was for.
A sweet elderly woman by the name of Helen Crawford had began seeing Hermione every so often for the past eight years or so for regular checkups regarding her arthritis. Even when Hermione was a medical student, she remembered Miss Crawford as a gentle woman who always had an extraordinary interest in the young doctor. Hermione had thought Helen to be a sweet woman of about seventy years old – still sharp as a tack, and full of wit. She always had a kind word, was punctual for all of her appointments, and was constantly grateful to the young physician for her medical advice.
Hermione, in return, was quite fond of the elderly woman. Her patient's diagnosis of arthritis was not an uncommon one, and truth be told Hermione didn't think it was necessary for Helen to make quite so many appointments to see her, but Dr. Granger was always glad to see the warm eyes and smiling face of Miss Helen Crawford.
And in Hermione's hand this very evening, was a prescription written on a single piece of paper for one Helen Crawford. Yet unfortunately, it was currently lying in the wrong hands.
The young doctor quickly weighed her options as she looked at her wristwatch.
She could hold onto the script until tomorrow, phone the elderly woman in the morning, and have her or one of her reliable friends or family members pick up the slip of paper. Or, Hermione could look up the woman's address and hand her the prescription herself this evening. After all, the medication was pertinent to her diagnosis, and Hermione knew that if she hurried, the script could possibly be filled by tonight.
The latter option, albeit the more complicated and involved option, seemed the most logical to Hermione. She knew offhand that all of her patients lived in or around the area, so the drive would not be too much out of her way.
The young doctor reached into her satchel, and drew out a gray calendar with which she used to jot down appointments, phone numbers and addresses of various clients for home visits, and other random bits of information. Flipping the pages in order to arrive at the letter 'C,' Hermione thought for a moment if she would even have the woman's number.
As luck would have it, she did.
Hermione scrolled up and down the pages, peering at her list of names.
'Castle, Cooper, Crawford – ah, here it is,' she spoke aloud to herself.
She saw the woman's name. Glanced at the woman's phone number.
…And then Hermione's eyes stopped cold when she saw Helen's address.
For until this moment, she hadn't paid any attention at all to where this woman lived….until now, that is. Hermione read, and re-read the address, trying to convince herself that it was a mistake, that the address was wrong. But somehow she knew, deep down in her soul that this was no mistake. This was some sort of cruel joke.
…For you see, Miss Helen Crawford lived just but two doors away from Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
…The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.