Visit 1
“Welcome to London Psychiatric Centre,” Dr. Stone’s voice was cold, but not laced with malice, “Are you here by your own freewill in seeking therapy?”
“Yes sir,” I ran my hands along my thighs, warming them up, “I am here because, because-”
“Of the accident?”
“Yes.”
“We had you fill out the forms before you stepped back with me. You selected for no one to have access to them without your explicit permission correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he placed the papers on the small coffee table beside his chair, “Hermione, I know that what you have been through is unimaginably difficult, but this is a safe place. The Ministry has given me permission to know the secrets of your world. Following your final appointment, my memories will be wiped and I will never know again. This is your opportunity to just breathe and let everything out. No one can get you here.”
Feeling my hands unclench, I leaned back into the old couch’s embrace. Taking in the room a bit more and looking up from my lap, I notice the paintings first. Some look like Renaissance landscapes, others completely modern. The walls are a soft beige, the carpet a soft mauve.
“I Think I’m ready.”
“Good,” he picks up the small notepad by the stack of documents, “Take this at your own pace. I’m only here to truly listen. All I ask is that we start with school, before the war. Tell me about your life separate from the war itself.”
“I lived in a smaller home with my parents, Jean and Robert Granger. My life was fairly normal there until my magic showed itself. I was on the playground and I saw two older students bullying a younger one. I felt so angry at them, then suddenly they were thrown away from the other student. Charles ended up with a broken arm and Lance had a concussion. Everyone wanted to know what happened but no one had an answer.”
“So you threw them?”
“No, not exactly. When a witch or wizard is young, sometimes strong emotions can bring the magic out of them and cause magical accidents.”
“I understand, please continue.”
“Right,” I lean back a bit further into the couch's soft cushions, “That’s when the letter came from an owl. It was inviting me to attend a school for witches and wizards. At first, my parents thought it was bogus until Dumbledore came to our flat. He talked to us for a long time about what I was and what that meant if I decided not to attend school. Soon after that, I packed my trunk and headed to the train station to go to school.”
“Did you enjoy school? Was it challenging or simple? Pardon my questions, but a wizarding school is not something I’m knowledgeable in for questions.”
“It’s okay,” I shrug, “I loved school, I had some really great friends there. Minus the psychopath trying to kill us nearly every spring, we made some great memories before the war truly began. School was something I was good at, a good escape to apply myself to.”
“I understand,” Dr. Stone nodded, his glasses sliding down his nose just slightly, “What other things about school do you feel influenced you prior to the war?”
“Well,” I sat for a long moment, gathering all the moments that truly influenced me. Everything had, honestly. “That’s hard. Everything had an influence on me. The professors for sure made their impact, as well as the other students. Specifically the Slytherins and their blood-purity bias.”
“Blood purity?”
“I was born of two human parents, muggles in our world. Many in the Slytherin house believed that I had no right to my magic because my blood was dirty, muggle blood. They would call me things like mudblood and treat me like a lower class citizen. Around second year was when the anxiety attacks started. I hid them but it was hard to deny that they were there.”
“According to the files, that was the year of the giant snake, correct?”
“Basilisk, yes.”
“And that word makes you uncomfortable,” he gave a nurturing smile, “If you are ready, we can elaborate on that, or we can save that for next time.”
“Next time.”
“Setting boundaries is good, Hermione. I want you to keep communicating through this process about what you are ready for and what will take more time. For now, let’s focus on each friend, one at a time.”
“I think I should start with Harry. He was really my first friend. The bravest boy I know, he was always willing to stand up for me against anyone. I would always help him and Ron with their homework and make sure that they stayed out of too much trouble. I mostly failed in the second part but I did my best.”
“When it comes to other people, the best is all we can do.”
“Sometimes it just felt like I was always giving everything to the friendships with Ron and Harry but didn’t feel like I was receiving the same.”
“Feeling like we aren’t receiving the same love that we give can go two directions; rewarding or like we are less.”
“It felt like less,” I look directly at the soft beige walls, the memories of Ron’s final fight with me playing back.
“Hermione,” Dr. Stone’s voice was softer, “Come back to where you are. You are in my office at a psychiatric office in London, you are safe. The year is 2007 and the war is over.”
“I’m here,” my eyes snapping back to him, “Sorry.”
“No need for apologies,” he gave a short nod for me to continue, “Why don’t we talk about other people from school, who comes to mind?”
“The Slytherins.”
“Right, those were in the file. Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott, correct?”
“Yes,” I look back down again.
“Would you like to discuss school with them?”
“I’ve forgiven them for what all they’ve done, they don’t take up much space in my mind any more.”
“They don’t?”
“Not anymore, I’ve learned that forgiving them was the best choice. Just like me, they were children fighting the adult’s war, their parent’s war. They can’t be condemned for their self-preservation.”
“That’s kind of you, Hermione.”
“Kindness is our best option during times of rebuilding. The things I did during the war were treated differently because we were the winners. I did nothing short of what they all did in order to survive.”
A sharp ding went off from a timer on the table.
“That is the end of our session for today. I want you to go home and gather your thoughts for next visit. I would like to start off with the beginning of the war. The end of your sixth year I believe.”
“Right.”
“Here’s a journal,” he held up a small composite journal with a band holding it closed, “I won’t read it unless you invite me to. It is simply for you to gather your thoughts, sort your emotions, and prepare you for your appointments. I’ll see you next week.”