Förgätmigej

Hermione knew something was terribly wrong when she stepped foot on Hogwarts grounds.

After leaving Hogsmeade in a flurry, urging Ron and Harry to finish their butterbeers, Hermione looks for Myrtle. Miraculously, she outpaces Harry and Ron, who lags behind her. She sprints ahead, breath hitching when she sees mediwizards posted outside Hogwarts grounds. 

Why don’t you ask Myrtle yourself?

The corridors are desolate, not a student in sight, but a small clamoring can be heard in the far distance. Her robes ruffle as she races down the hallways. There is an eerie calmness to the school, with no bursting commotion or panic. 

The chattering sound gets louder as Hermione makes her way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts.

The blood red, cross symbols of the mediwizards flash in her mind, burning into her corneas. It’s at every turn of her head, grim faces and white robes. She never liked hospitals, and it seemed like they had brought the sickly energy of it to Hogwarts.

And suddenly, the twisting path that her feet lead her to, is all too familiar. The stairs to the second floor, the Great Hall beneath the ground, the out-of-order girls bathroom at the end of the hall.

Hermione slows to a halt, her vision swimming.

A group of students huddle around the entrance to the bathroom, cleaving to make way for the mediwizards, who walk in with a gurney.

She can feel Harry and Ron behind her, mouths agape at the scene before them.

There were only two people who frequented the second floor girls bathroom.

Hermione stumbles forward, pushing through the crowd of students. There was no remorse or sadness in their eyes, only grim intrigue, the sort of look when you spot a grotesque animal birth that entrances you in its bizarre ferocity. The victim seemed to garner no sympathy from the audience. Hermione’s stomach twists. Desperation claws at her.

Her eyes widen as the amorphous group of students part for her, as if noticing that she might be the only person to care for the victim. 

The control of her body has been forfeited to her subconscious, as she continues the walk forward, knowing exactly what she will see but being unable to stop her trance.

Bathroom doors swing open, Hermione gazes into the lavatory. 

Its damp, wet floors are clean of blood, only dirtied by sewage water from its improper maintenance. The only sight of red is the cross affixed to the mediwizards uniform, as they crouch on the floor and strap a body to a gurney. Hermione’s eyes trail down.

The body laying on the gurney is pale, almost translucent. Myrtle’s face was white, her body frozen, and dead.

But, she couldn’t be dead. 

Hermione retches, leaning on the doorframe as she covers her mouth.

The sound alerts the mediwizards, whose heads snap up and stare at her emotionless. The harbinger of death.

One of the medics, an elderly grey man, opens his mouth, but Hermione can’t seem to hear the words. Paranoia clouds her thoughts. She was supposed to hear. That was all she did. 

At the command of the oldest mediwizard, a few others file behind her, gently ushering her away.

Hermione elbows at them, eyes still glued to Myrtle’s still body. 

She moves to protest, but finds her knees shaking and her body sinking to the floor.

Arms hoist her up, and she can feel the urgency in their tense grips.

She turns, attempting to wrench herself away from the mediwizards. Fellow classmates stare back at her, sympathy filling their sullen eyes. They shouldn’t mourn Myrtle’s death, because Hermione was sure that Myrtle could still be alive, if Hermione could just go and check. Their heads double and triple as her head seems to fold in on itself. The wet smell of the bathroom mingles with the antiseptic medic fumes. But mint penetrates her nose, burning her lungs.

In her blurred vision, Riddle’s face is clear, and for a brief moment, they must have locked eyes.

It must have been shock, or the lack of blood intake, but Hermione feels herself crumble to the floor.

Her heightened senses must mean something about Riddle.

***

Hermione's eyes refuse to close, but they don’t open. She lays, half-lidded on the gurney, only seeing out of the sliver that her eyelids have parted.

Time doesn’t seem to pass, the way it worked in dreams. Hermione had just seen Myrtle’s body moments ago.

Myrtle’s body.

She screams, but can’t quite tell if she’s screaming. Lights flicker and her body tingles as she can feel herself being hovered mid-air and into a mattress. The rough, scratchy sheets tell her that she is in the Hogwarts infirmary.

Myrtle.

Hermione’s body was on fire, burning itself raw until it was fed with more kindling.

Now, there was no more kindling, and the fire was going to be extinguished.

Myrtle was dead and Hermione was going to die too. 

She jerks.

“Miss Granger? Miss Granger!” A voice rings out in the distance, getting louder and louder and punishing her brain by echoing into a migraine.

Limbs burn and her heart races like she had run for hours. Hermione gasps, sucking in air. She was tired, the sort of muscle-aching tired she felt after a good marathon, but no matter how deeply her chest heaved for air, her heart can’t seem to settle.

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione wants to scream for whoever to shut up. 

She wants to scream that none of them could solve her problem with their herbs and spells and comforting words. Her teeth ache.

She needs to feed.

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione thrashes, trying to shake off the feeling of her own blood burning her skin.

More concerned hands pin her to the infirmary bed.

She could feel her heart pulsating, pushing her blood in and out of its ventricles.

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione’s eyes crack open. She stares at the high ceiling.

A few moments pass, as she breathes methodically, flexing her fingers at her side experimentally, trying to regain the sense of feeling.

“Move aside,” a deep, rumbling voice brings Hermione’s thoughts to a stop.

Why was Dumbledore here? Did he know who killed Myrtle? Did he find Hermione’s mark?

She swings herself upright, the knobs of her spine popping.

Mediwizards, Harry, Ron, and Dumbledore surround her bed. Hermione’s vision swims from the sudden movement and she blinks, panicked, thinking for a moment that she had lost her sight.

The dancing lights that clouded her vision eventually clears.

Dumbledore glances at the medics and her friends, giving them a simple nod. The medics evacuate quickly, collecting their wands and adjusting their robes. Harry and Ron are more reluctant, lingering near the foot of Hermione’s bed before forcing themselves away.

Hermione sits upright, swaying slightly in her fatigue.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore says, warmly.

Hermione’s breath hitches. His smile is fatherly, the sort of genuine worry that Hermione’s own father might express. Still, she does not relent.

She straightens, forcing herself to stop rocking.

“Headmaster.”

“Are you feeling better?” Dumbledore’s voice is scratched with the voicebox of an elderly man. He grabs a wooden chair and drags it to the side of her bed before taking his seat.

Hermione was in for a conversation. 

She narrows her eyes. Clearly, she was not feeling any better, it had been mere seconds—or so she can recall—since she collapsed. 

Hermione nods nevertheless. She’s desperate and fearful of what Dumbledore might say,

“I’m glad to hear that.” He smiles, his long grey beard moving with his cheeks.

And for the first time, Hermione has no idea what to say.

She doesn’t have anything to say to Dumbledore, now that her reliable source of energy has been terminated and Hermione is left to the thunderous afterthought that she has to deal with the consequences. Hermione’s first thought is that she might as well be good as dead, but now that her head is clearing and Dumbledore’s warm smile is reminding her that she still has the trust of all her seniors, Hermione feels the strangely foreign, human urge to stay alive. And even as these thoughts trickle into her mind and her nerves pick up the smallest spark of feeling, Hermione cannot say anything.

Realization washes over her as she stares back into Dumbledore’s misty eyes.

Although she might not have anything to tell the Headmaster, the Headmaster might have something to tell her.

Hermione swallows, realizing that she still had to play the part of Myrtle’s friend.

“Is Myrtle—” She cuts herself off purposefully.

Her ploy is convincing enough.

“I’m deeply sorry, Hermione.”

He looks deeply sorry.

Hermione draws her brows together, forcing her eyes to squint in disbelief and her lips to turn downwards into the beginnings of a frown. She hopes she looks devastated. 

“I know you are very shocked, but understand that there are many resources for you to access in these times of… tragedy.”

Hermione’s head snaps up.

What does he want?

“Headmaster Dumbledore, what happened to Myrtle?”

His entire face contorts with distaste.

“Olive Hornby was sent to look for Miss Warren, and she found her body in the lavatory.”

“When?”

“Earlier today, mere moments before you stumbled upon that scene.”

“Oh.” Hermione inhales shakily. “What happened to Myrtle?” She asks, this time more firmly.

“The mediwizards found her… deceased, on the spot.” He looks at her, gauging the shock in her eyes. 

Hermione musters her courage. “Was she killed?”

“Her body was found intact, no open wounds or signs of aggravated assault. So far, we have no information.”

Myrtle’s body. Hermione’s bite mark. If they did an autopsy—

She tries to hide her panic, but the desperate breathing and spasming hands are enough to alarm Dumbledore.

“I’m sorry if this is unsettling, Miss Granger, would you like to discuss this at another time?” Dumbledore misreads Hermione’s fright.

Hermione shakes her head weakly. Hands ball into fists as she forces herself still, to stop shaking.

They couldn’t do an autopsy.

Hermione was fucked.

“When will we get… information about Myrtle’s death?” She asks warily.

“The school and I are cooperating with the Ministry to deal with this unfortunate event, but we have not been permitted to proceed with an autopsy.”

Hermione struggles for air. She’s relieved.

“Why?” She croaks.

“But, we are allowing the Ministry to publish Miss Warren’s tragic passing to memorialize her. Would you be alright with allowing a reporter to ask you for a testimony?”

Hermione pales. 

A testimony.

A small price to pay.

“Please don’t feel burdened at all, Miss Granger, we just want a fellow Muggleborn to represent Myrtle—”

“Why do they need a testimony?”

No autopsy, no search for the cause of death, but a testimony from a “fellow” muggleborn.

Dumbledore pauses, leaning back in his chair with a contemplative look in his eyes.

Normal, everyday deaths were not pasted onto the front page of the newspaper. Muggleborn deaths were especially glossed over, and frequent, often falling victim to the—

“A testimony. A testimony to what?”

“The Hogwarts School of Magic is a safe space for all students, of all backgrounds.” Dumbledore looks at her solemnly. “We do not want to fearmonger the public into thinking that Hogwarts is anything but that.”

The ugly truth sinks its teeth into Hermione.

“Headmaster, you think this was a blood purity related crime.”

His silence is enough of an answer.

“Miss Olive Hornby reported that a Slytherin was believed to be following Myrtle Warren.”

Except, Hermione knew her peers, she knew these vicious, Pureblood Slytherin sixteen year old boys had no heart to kill, or the courage to carry it out. Even more, she knew that none of them had the art to kill well, quietly and without a trace. Myrtle’s body was clean of all wounds, no blood and no fingerprints. This was a well-executed kill, covered up with the fact that even wizard schools were desperate to extinguish truths that might risk their name. 

This was a very special Slytherin.

If Hermione needed to lie to a reporter about the good deeds of Hogwarts to prevent an autopsy, she had no protests.

“When do I meet with the reporter?”

Dumbledore smiles, his entire body emanating relief. Hermione returns the smile weakly.

***

Hermione leaves the infirmary.

She won’t let Madam Pomfrey observe her, hover above her body with a wet rag, prodding at every limb and appendage. Medical examinations would be redundant. Hermione knows the cause of her cold-sweats, sore knees, and shaking hands. Colorful vials and interesting sounding herbs won’t help her problem.

Chattering surrounds her, following her at every turn and corner. Apologies and solemn condolences are whispered her way, tight embraces and concerned smiles. Hermione shakes it off, brushing away their touch with a weak hand.

A slew of students pass by Hermione’s dorm, chocolates in hand.

Being sociable had its perks, like free food and cards that she could use for the common room fire. 

Lavender and Parvati are by her side the moment she enters the girls dormitory. A couple other heads poke out of their rooms, staring at Hermione with hushed whispers.

A death is rare at Hogwarts, yet all the common in life. Her fellow peers must be aroused by the concept of an unspeakable accident that also never felt like an accident. It was happenstance, or so the school made it out to be, but with the outcasted, bullied Myrtle Warren, it brought with it a looming cloud of repeat offenses and the notion of ethos. Something was tragic about Myrtle’s death, or murder, as the students quickly spun their own narrative. Her schoolmates were especially quick to get on the moral high ground by using Myrtle’s death to highlight the atrocities in the wizarding world. They would blame the educational system, the Pureblood ideology, and the Ministry, just to feel better themselves, to feel like a savior who defends the marginalized. It’s only the half-bloods or “blood-traitor” purebloods who parade around with this rhetoric.

Publicly, Hermione is mute, appearing to be stricken with grief. In private, Hermione wants to laugh. She was apathetic to blood purity transgressions, it took up energy to care about discourse, to be angry at the Pureblood extremists. And Hermione does not have the energy.

She conserves the best she can, to stave off the hunger for blood before she can find a solution.

She listens in on the conversations, gathering as much as she can with her slowly deteriorating hearing. Is this what normal people hear? She will think, as she only hears the words of students in her immediate vicinity. 

If only Myrtle had not tragically expired, then Hermione’s life would have smoothed over.

Hermione steels herself.

Myrtle Warren was dead, killed , and Hermione was looking for a replacement. 

“Are you alright?” Lavender’s voice rings.

Hermione’s head snaps up, greeted by the two, worried faces of her dormmates Lavender and Parvati. They sit by the foot of her head, crouching on the floor.

“I’m alright,” Hermione says, but it comes out in a quiet, shaking voice.

Lavender and Parvati exchange frightful looks. There’s a twinge of guilt in their wide eyes, and Hermione cannot blame them, but she can’t quite bring herself to care, either.

“We’re sorry… about everything that’s happened,” Parvati starts.

Hermione shakes her head softly. “I don’t need your apologies,” she says with a rueful laugh.

I need your blood.

Hermione is perched on the edge of her bed, legs dangling off the mattress, limp and weak like noodles.

“We got more cards.” Lavender twists her body, reaching behind and reappearing with a handful of colorful papers. 

The sight almost makes Hermione sick.

At first, Hermione was appalled by the sorry gifts that found themselves on her lap. She took the time to read through the cards, or open the lids to the box of chocolates. They all contained notes of something reminiscent of get-well-soon cards, or offering their condolences for Hermione’s loss. It was all strange. Hermione was by no means popular, nor was her journey to the infirmary serious enough to warrant all these gestures.

Then it dawned on her. Hermione was their last chance at a flimsy redemption, to pretend they cared about the lonely Myrtle Warren. By attempting to console Hermione, they provided an iota of concern, as if a God from above would excuse their vile actions in the past and their secret monologues on how they could not stand Myrtle. All this because it was spreading, the news that this might have been a blood purity related crime, and Hermione was going to do an interview.

Hermione couldn’t care less. Let these poseurs think themselves good people.

Lavender pushes the cards into Hermione’s hands, the rough, paper edges scratching against her skin. Hermione’s weak fingers grab around the stock material. She looks up at Lavender, forcing herself to smile and grit out: “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Lavender says, relieved. 

“If there’s anything we can do for you, just let us know,” Parvati says.

Hermione nods, hoping the two girls would just go to their beds and leave her alone. She needed time to think, formulate.

“Listen, Hermione, I know we’ve all said some awful things about Myrtle,” Lavender starts.

‘All ,’ Lavender says, as if implying that it was a collective activity would alleviate her guilt. Hermione almost scoffs.

“But… you know, whatever happened to Myrtle? She didn’t deserve it.” Lavender shakes her head solemnly, Parvati following suit.

Hermione grits her teeth. How very righteous of Lavender Brown, pureblood. Hermione won’t give it to Lavender.

“There is something you can do for me,” Hermione says.

Lavender and Parvati nod vigorously, inching forward.

“Let me be.” Her voice is cold and cutting.

Truthfully, Hermione could think of something better the two girls could do: offer their necks and their silence.

But she keeps quiet.

They hesitate, gulping as they glance at Hermione nervously.

“‘Mione, we know you’re hurting. Just… let us know if you need anyone to talk to.” Parvati squeezes Hermione’s hand.

Numb, Hermione can barely feel the warmth and grip of Parvati’s hand.

She nods nonetheless.

Parvati and Lavender hug her briefly, but carefully, as if Hermione might suddenly collapse like a dying star and the two would be left to clean her up. They whisper good-nights and saunter to their respective beds, pulling the covers over their shoulders and turning away as if just looking at Hermione might damage their pupils.

Hermione pulls herself straighter. Arms wrapping around the bundle of cards, Hermione tugs open her nightstand drawer, shoving them into the cavity without a second thought.

A small, folded paper falls to her feet, somehow escaping the transfer.

She pauses.

Carefully, she bends forward, gingerly picking up the unassuming card and observing it in her hands.

It’s plain, sturdy, yet barely big enough to fit in the palm of her hand.

Hermione slowly opens the card.

My thoughts are with you. I know what Myrtle meant to you.

Your Friend, Tom Riddle.

His handwriting is neat with looping and deliberate letters. 

Hermione’s canines ache.

Tom Riddle knows.

A shiver runs down her spine and her stomach drops.