The Weight of Sight
The sterile scent of St. Mungo’s filled the air, mingling with the soft hum of the hospital’s activity. It was a place Hermione knew well, though not for the reasons she ever would have imagined. The faint sounds of healers bustling around, the low murmur of hushed conversations, the distant beeps and whirrs of machinery—it was all so familiar, but today it felt different. Today, there was something heavier in the air, a strange anticipation that made the walls feel a little closer, a little more suffocating.
Hermione stood in the corridor with Neville by her side, the warmth of his presence like a steady anchor amid the sea of uncertainty. He had been paged just moments ago, and now they were here, standing at the threshold of a possibility that had once felt so far beyond reach. They thought they had figured out how to reverse the spell. They thought they could give her back her sight. The healer's words echoed in her mind as she stood at the door of the treatment room.
Neville’s hand brushed against hers as he gently guided her forward. He didn’t need to say anything; she could feel his tension in the small gestures, the way his fingers lingered just slightly longer than usual, as if offering reassurance without words. He had always been like that, always so attuned to her, even when he wasn’t sure of the right thing to say. Today, though, there was a weight to the silence between them, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
"Are you okay?" Neville asked, his voice soft but with an edge of concern.
Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure she was. She had been holding her breath since the moment she’d heard the news. She wanted to be hopeful, wanted to believe in this chance, but there was a part of her that was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if it didn’t work. If she still couldn’t see.
"Yeah," she whispered, her voice betraying the nervous tremor she couldn’t quite hide. "I think I am."
Neville gave her hand a squeeze before gently pulling away. The door to the treatment room loomed ahead, and Hermione took a slow, steadying breath. She didn’t know what would happen in the next few moments. She had no idea if this was the beginning of something incredible or if it would end in more disappointment. All she could do was take one step at a time.
"Do you want me to come in with you?" Neville’s voice was hesitant now, a stark contrast to the usual warmth and confidence that Hermione had come to rely on. She could feel the concern in his words, the uncertainty that lingered beneath his steady exterior. He knew how much this moment meant to her, and it was clear he wished more than anything to be by her side, even though the situation was beyond his control.
Hermione paused for a moment, her fingers tracing the edges of the doorframe as she absorbed his question. She could feel his presence just behind her, like a comforting shadow, and she longed for his proximity, for his reassurance. The thought of walking into that sterile, cold room without him felt unbearable. And yet, she knew the procedure had its boundaries. Healer Longbottom—Neville, as she always thought of him—wasn’t permitted to enter the room with her. He had to remain in the hallway, bound by the rules of patient confidentiality and the sanctity of the process.
“No,” Hermione said softly, her voice carrying a tenderness that she hadn’t meant to show. She shook her head slowly, though she knew he couldn’t see the motion. “You’ve already done so much for me, Neville. I’ll be okay.”
Neville’s hand gently rested on her shoulder, a simple, but powerful gesture. He didn’t say anything more, but she could feel the weight of his support in that touch. It was a wordless promise—one that assured her, no matter what happened next, he would be right there for her. He always had been, in every moment of her life that mattered. "I’ll be right here when you come out," he said quietly, his voice soft but steady, trying to ease her anxiety. "You don’t have to do this alone."
The lump in Hermione’s throat tightened, threatening to overtake her composure. He was right, of course. He always was. Even in this moment of uncertainty, Neville’s calmness was a steady anchor she could hold onto. He had never wavered, never left her side, and that made all the difference. She could do this.
“I’ll see you soon,” Hermione whispered, more to herself than to him, as she turned to step into the room. Her heart raced in her chest, a tangled mix of hope and fear, but with Neville’s presence still lingering in her mind, she pushed open the door and crossed the threshold.
The treatment room was eerily quiet, the soft rustle of the healer’s robes the only sound breaking the silence. Hermione took a seat in the chair at the center of the room, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingertips, the texture oddly grounding in contrast to the surreal weight of the moment. The procedure was about to begin. She could hear the soft shuffle of the healer’s steps as they prepared, the familiar flick of a wand as it hummed with quiet magic.
“Hermione, we’ll be starting now. Please try to remain as still as you can,” the healer’s voice was calm and steady, professional yet filled with the kind of warmth that helped ease some of Hermione’s tension. “This will take a few moments.”
Hermione nodded, even though she knew the healer couldn’t see it. She gripped the armrests tightly, her fingers finding the smooth, cold surface and holding on for dear life. Her body felt stiff with anticipation, and her heart thudded in her chest as she tried to steady her breath. It was almost impossible to focus on anything other than the wave of emotions crashing over her—the hope that this spell would work, the anxiety of what it would feel like to finally open her eyes after so long. What would she see? What would be waiting for her?
As the healer began to move around her, Hermione’s mind wandered briefly. She couldn’t help but remember the countless days when she had longed for this moment, the days when she had dreamed of what it would be like to see again. The ache of loss had become so familiar that at times she had wondered if she would ever truly feel whole again. She had built her life around navigating the world without sight, finding strength in the people she loved, and learning to rely on her other senses in ways she never thought possible. But now, everything was about to change. Or so she hoped.
The room seemed to grow smaller, the air heavier with every passing second. The magic was subtle at first, a low hum she could almost feel beneath her skin, vibrating through the air like a soft, invisible current. The sensation built slowly, a pulsing warmth that began to seep into her body, making her pulse quicken. She could sense the healer’s presence shifting around her, casting gentle spells, each one wrapping around her like a cocoon, soft yet powerful.
Her thoughts drifted back to Neville, his absence in the room more pronounced than ever. She could still feel his presence just outside the door, a silent promise that he would be there for her no matter what happened. But in this moment, it was just her, alone with the magic, her hope, and her fear. The uncertainty of it all felt like an invisible weight pressing down on her chest, threatening to choke the breath out of her.
And then—suddenly—there it was. The magic pulsed in a brilliant rush, a wave that seemed to fill the entire room, enveloping her in its warmth. It was as though her very soul had been wrapped in something tender, yet forceful. Her senses sparked to life in ways she couldn’t quite understand, a rush of clarity flooding through her like a tidal wave. Her heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to process the feeling that was blossoming inside of her.
"Miss Granger," the healer’s voice broke through her swirling thoughts, kind and soothing. "The curse has been reversed. You can open your eyes now."
Hermione hesitated, her pulse hammering in her throat. It was a simple instruction, and yet it felt monumental, like opening a door to a world she had once known but feared she might never see again. Her fingers trembled slightly as she slowly lifted her hands to her face, unsure whether she was ready for what lay beyond the darkness. With a deep breath, she carefully peeled her eyes open, the cool air brushing against her skin.
At first, there was only light. Soft, golden light, a warm, brilliant glow that swirled around her, too intense to fully comprehend. She blinked several times, adjusting, trying to focus. Slowly, the light began to settle, the world gradually coming into focus. Colors. Shapes. The edges of the room, the healer’s robes, the soft movement of air in the room. It was all there—clear and sharp, more beautiful than she ever remembered. It was overwhelming, too much to process all at once, and yet it was everything she had hoped for.
But then, something caught her eye. She looked down, and there it was. The golden vines—still there, curling around her arms, glimmering faintly in the soft light. Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the restoration she had imagined. The spell was gone, yes. But the mark remained.
The healer’s voice softened, tinged with concern. “We weren’t able to remove the vines. They seem to be permanent. It’s the aftermath of the curse, we believe. We’re still researching ways to undo it, but for now... they’re a part of you.”
Hermione’s gaze lingered on the vines, her fingers brushing gently against the shimmering gold. A sense of bittersweetness flooded through her. The curse had been lifted, and that was all that truly mattered. She had her sight back—after so long, it was finally hers again. But these marks, these vines, were a part of her now, reminders of the journey she had endured, of the battles fought, and the pain she had overcome.
She exhaled slowly, a sense of relief washing over her, even as the weight of the vines lingered in her mind. They were a scar. A mark. But they wouldn’t define her. They were just a reminder of what she had survived—and now, she had her sight back. She would move forward.
She was ready.