Medway Maritime Hospital
Hermione was admitted into the hospital with mysterious symptoms. Her organs scanned as performing within normal limits, albeit on the low side. She could not be budged from her coma state, however.
One of the treating doctors looked up Henrienna Miller's NHS history and compared it with the notes the paramedics supplied upon arrival at the Emergency Department. According to her social worker, Ms Miller had been living with amnesia and received a shock just before she fell unconscious…
In the loud and busy Nurse's Station for Hermione's ward, the doctor phoned Dr Martin, the psychiatrist who oversaw Ms Miller's treatment at the Royal London.
"Oh my," Dr Martin repeated on the other end of the line over the sound of shuffling papers and the clink of a teacup against a saucer. "Well, not that I would recommend it as a treatment, but it's possible that a significant shock might have set Ms Miller into a state of protective unconsciousness. It's as if her body is hibernating while her mind receives and processes an enormous backlog of memories."
Hermione's current doctor knew there was a reason why he hadn't majored in psychiatry at medical school. Give him a dicky heart or gangrenous toes any day. "So, you don't recommend that we try to wake her, then?"
"Oh, my, no!" Dr Martin's earnest response was accompanied by a slurpy sip of tea. An uncharitable figure of Dr Martin appeared in the treating doctor's mind, with copious amounts of hair sprouting from his ears and Birkenstocks upon his socked feet. "No, it's best we give her time to adjust. When she wakes, she may have all her memories back." Dr Martin paused. "Or no memories at all." He paused again. "Or something in the middle…"
The treating doctor ended the call and sighed. Is it too late to think of a career change?
Some time later
Something was touching Hermione's face. It sort of felt like Crookshanks licking her, but not so raspy nor smelling of cat food. And there was something in the back of her throat that shouldn't be there.
Her eyes opened to find a nurse gently sponging her face with a warm damp cloth, who was just as surprised to see Hermione as Hermione was to see her. "Oh my goodness, you're awake at last!" the nurse exclaimed, leaning over the bed to summon a doctor. "You were just like Snow White, lying there all pale and still-like. The doctor will be thrilled! How do you feel, dear?"
"Uh…" Hermione cautiously raised herself to a semi-sitting position, with the nurse adjusting the bed. "Okay… I guess?"
The doctor peered around the curtains surrounding Hermione's bed. "Oh!" was his first, rather unprofessional statement, which he quickly covered by coughing and stating "Welcome back, Ms Miller! It's marvellous to see you so animated at last! How are you feeling?"
"I think I feel okay, thank you," Hermione replied raspily.
The doctor took her pulse and temperature. "Absolutely normal, brilliant," he concluded. After the nurse deftly removed her nasogastric tube, she was offered a cup of tea and there were discussions over her head about passing a myriad of tests and getting her slowly up and walking about.
"Is there anybody you want me to call, dear?" the nurse asked.
Hermione closed her eyes and tried to think. Harry was in the middle of nowhere and didn't have a phone. Same with Ron –
Who are Harry and Ron? She tried to reach out for a memory, but it was too far away.
Ginny was still in school, possibly, and anyway she wouldn't be able to send an Owl from hospital –
What? Owls?
Gerry! Gerry had a phone. Except… Gerry knew Henrienna. Not Hermione.
Hermione… that's me, isn't it? Hermione Granger.
She bit her lip. She loved dangerous-driving, illegitimate-parking, loud, brash, unorthodox Gerry.
Draco.
He was in jail.
He tortured and abused her. Did he? Or was it his Dad? Or both?
Her parents? Except… she did something to them. They weren't safe. She did something and she doesn't know where they are…
Tears welled up, then fell onto her cheeks. Her body shook.
The nurse re-closed the curtains and put her arms around the crying girl. "There, there, Henrienna. It's a big shock for you. You're going to feel very confused for the next few days or weeks, that's perfectly normal. If you want to talk to someone, or need anything, just push the call button, all right?"
Hermione blew her nose on a proffered tissue and warbled "My name's Hermione Granger."
The nurse looked at her. "Positive?"
"Positive."
The nurse beamed. "Excellent!"
Later at the Nurses' Station
Oaths and mutterings came from Hermione's doctor, who was directing them at the computer. When he started slapping the monitor with an open palm, a nurse intervened. "What are you looking for?"
The doctor stopped slapping the monitor but still glared at it. "There are notes from Patient Granger's psychiatrist in there, but I can't bloody find them."
"Have you looked under 'Hermione Granger?' the nurse asked. It was a pretty obvious suggestion, but sometimes doctors couldn't see the woods for the trees.
"Yes," the doctor snapped, "but I initially entered the notes under the name she had before she recovered her memories."
"So, go look there." The nurse was bored with the conversation and the phone was ringing off the hook.
"I can't!" the doctor expostulated. Then, in a lower voice, he muttered "I can't remember that name."
The nurse sniggered.
"Well, do you remember what it is?"
The nurse froze, hand hovering over the phone. "You know… I can't."
They stared at each other.
"I'll contact IT and see if they can do anything," the nurse said, and picked up the phone.
I'll do better than that, thought the doctor, striding to Hermione's ward. I'll ask the patient herself.
But when he reached her bed, and after some inane chitchat and monitoring of her symptoms, he found himself heading on to his next patient without even thinking to ask Hermione about her prior name at all.
Back home… as far as Hermione knows
Eventually, and against the hospital's advice about discharging herself with no friend or relative to collect her, Hermione taxied back to her flat with a much clearer idea of her identity and who she was before washing up under a London tree, nearly dead.
She tried not to, but her head swivelled to the house next door, the one with strips of bright Police tape clinging here and there to the door handle and shrubbery. She stiffened her shoulders and turned the key in her own door's lock.
Some post had piled up on her doormat. Hermione scooped it up and shoved it in her bag with barely a cursory glance.
When she last stood in her kitchen, she was Henrienna Miller. Everything seemed the same now, even though her life was turned upside down. Or was it the right side up? Aside from the fridge, which had a nasty whiff emanating from it.
She trudged up the stairs to her bedroom. A single rose that Draco gave her, which she'd put in a jam jar doing double duty as a vase, had given up the ghost. Dead petals decorated the floor. The remaining water inside the vase looked like a Herbology experiment.
She sat on the bed and wondered how much longer she'd be able to live here. Maybe there was a written demand from Protective Persons, saying she didn't need protecting anymore, now the – or a – culprit was caught.
She opened her bag and dumped the mail onto her bed. A cursory sift through found no such missive, but there was an important-looking envelope from one of the medical schools she applied to.
Henrienna had been accepted. With full scholarship benefits.
Her first thought was to phone Draco and tell him the good news. Then her heart sank.
Her second thought was to phone Gerry. Her heart sank even further.
She curled up among her pillows, wrapped her arms around herself, and cried.
A few days later
Visiting Diagon Alley had taken some conversing with herself. For all she knew, the Wizarding World was still at war, and she was still one of Voldemort's Most Wanted. She didn't even have a wand to defend herself with.
But she missed everyone badly. She longed to cuddle Crooks again. She hoped Hogwarts was still standing. She wanted to know what happened to everyone.
She stood up and grabbed her bag. Fuck it, let's go. What's the harm in just one peek into the Leaky Cauldron's lair?
Could be nothing. Could be everything.
London entrance to the Leaky Cauldron
Well, here she was. Staring at a brick wall with no wand to tap the necessary element. The way she'd always done it before.
Why didn't she think of that?
She glanced down at her hand and thought of the times Draco encouraged her to learn wandless magic. He must have been preparing her to return. In his own way.
She rudely shoved Draco out of her mind. He was too hard to think about, now.
She was way too out of practice to Apparate, so it was the wall or….
Hermione squared her shoulders and tapped the wall.