Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
The night passes in a watercolor haze. Hermione dips into and out of consciousness, the sounds of the hospital washing over her as sleep ebbs from her body.
She rolls onto her side and shivers as her fingers twist stiff bed sheets. St. Mungo’s is safe, but it is cold. Hermione sighs and burrows deeper into the mattress, wishing she had something else to cover herself with.
She thinks of a hotel room in muggle Sydney, and the weight of an arm anchoring her. Hermione wraps the sheets tighter around her shoulder, and dreamless sleep crests over her once more.
As daylight stretches its lazy fingers through the window, a knock sounds from the door.
“Miss Granger?”
A healer, a different one from the day before, ducks into the room. Her lime green robes trail the floor behind her, and a magical clipboard follows.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
Hermione blinks and rubs a hand over her face. She sits up slowly, heavy tethers of sleep dropping from her body as she opens her eyes.
“I feel—” she pauses and looks down, frowning as she tries to take stock of her body. “I feel just fine,” she says.
“Excellent.” The healer bends to examine Hermione’s arm as the quill scrawls a note on the clipboard. “Let me just look you over one more time and then I believe you can go.”
Hermione nods, and leans back against the pillow as the healer waves her wand in the air, turning every so often to consult the clipboard.
When at last the diagnostics have all been performed, and the healer satisfied with the results, the quill stills.
“Everything looks to be in order, Miss Granger. We won’t keep you here any longer.”
Hermione looks to the window, the world outside. “Thank you,” she mutters.
“Do try to rest as much as you can over the next few days,” the healer says. “You might still have a few aches from stress and the Dark Magic, but it shouldn’t be debilitating.”
She adjusts her lime green robes and peers at Hermione. “You have a friend here who said he’s supposed to escort you home. Would you like me to send him in now or should I wait a little bit?”
Hermione’s breath halts in her throat. She nods, a hand coming up to run through her hair. “Send him in now, please.”
“Very well.”
The healer scuttles to the door, and a moment later another figure walks into the room.
“Hey.”
Hermione bites her lip, swallowing the jagged lump in her chest as she tries to smile.
“Hi. Thanks for coming.”
Harry shrugs, peering around the hospital room. “Mrs. Weasley didn’t want you to make the trip by yourself.”
Hermione nods absently, her gaze once again drifting out the window. She tries to push down the disappointment flooding her chest, the burning behind her eyes. She is being silly, she tells herself. She has no reason to be sad right now.
Harry comes to the edge of the hospital bed and holds out a hand. Hermione takes it and awkwardly clambers over the side. Her feet meet the ground and she adjusts her weight, finding her balance after spending two days bedbound.
“Here, Ginny packed some clothes for you.” Harry holds out a small bag which Hermione gratefully accepts, flipping it open and peering inside to see a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. “I can—er—go wait in the hallway while you change.”
Hermione nods. “I’ll be just a moment.”
The door clicks closed behind Harry and Hermione hurriedly divests herself of the hospital gown, tugging on the jeans and t-shirt. She runs a hand over her face again, trying to smooth the circles that no doubt hang under her eyes. Her hair is a lost cause. The bushy curls hang loose around her shoulders, matted and gnarled.
Hermione sighs and hooks the empty bag over her shoulder. There is no use worrying about the state of her hair now. Once she gets to the Burrow she can take a shower—maybe spend the entire day under scalding water—and everything will be put back in order.
She takes a breath and turns the handle of the door. Harry stands in the corridor, arms crossed over his chest and back against the wall. He looks up as Hermione steps towards him. He smiles.
“Ready?”
“Actually—” Hermione shifts, the bag swinging at her side. “I actually was thinking I’d like to see my parents before we go.”
“Oh.” Harry straightens and nods. “Of course.” He runs a hand through his hair, craning his neck to glance down the corridor. “Yeah, we can—er—we can go down to reception and ask where they are. I dunno exactly which ward it is.”
He reaches out and takes the bag from Hermione’s shoulder, slinging it over his own and nodding down the corridor. “The lifts are this way.”
Harry leads her to the lifts and into the bustling lobby of St. Mungo’s. Hermione follows wordlessly, her arms coming up to cross against her chest. The lobby is organized pandemonium, full of witches and wizards sporting injuries that range from amusing to gruesome. To her relief, nobody seems to wonder or care who she and Harry are.
A rather harried-looking woman sits behind the reception desk, and she hardly looks up as Hermione inquires about where to find David and Miranda Granger.
“Complex spell damage,” the witch replies in a monotone. “Fourth floor, third corridor on the left. Go all the way down. They’ll be in the Radford ward.”
“Thank you,” Hermione squeaks. She elbows through the crowd, Harry bedside her.
When they stand before the lifts Hermione stops and turns. She catches her lower lip with her teeth, her eyes landing on Harry.
“Harry—” she pauses, looks down. “I think I’d actually like to go alone, if that’s alright.”
Harry’s eyebrows rise, and he doesn’t answer right away.
His mouth twists, his eyes unfocusing slightly. His gaze floats above Hermione’s shoulder, taking him far away to a forest full of ghosts.
A beat passes, and then the moment bursts.
“I get it.” His face clears, eyes landing back on her. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll go—er—make a cup of tea.
Hermione swallows, blinking rapidly to clear the tears already threatening to burst behind her skull. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
Harry takes out his wand and flicks it towards the lift. The gates fly open, and they both step in.
The gates click closed behind them, and the lift rattles upward. Hermione looks at the ceiling as they climb closer, closer, closer to her parents.
When they land with a jerk on the fourth floor Hermione steels herself, staring at the seemingly endless corridor stretching ahead of them.
The walls lean towards her. The floor holds its breath.
Hermione twists to look over her shoulder. Harry stands beside her. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder once more.
“Come find me when you’re ready.”
She nods. Harry nudges her slightly forward. He gives her a tight smile, his hand dropping to his side. Hermione returns the smile and steps out into the corridor, the lift gates clanging behind her.
Hermione walks down the corridor as though pulled by a string. Her feet carry her forward of their own accord, passing door after closed door standing like soldiers in a line on either side of the corridor. A pair of double doors sits at the end of the hall, flanked by a figure clad in lime green robes.
Her breath catches as a memory blossoms of another afternoon, another ward on the fourth floor. The only other time she has visited St. Mungo’s. She looks at the double doors ahead of her, thinks of Neville Longbottom pocketing a sweets wrapper given to him by his mother.
Her breath grows heavy. Her footsteps quicken.
She grinds to a halt in front of the double doors, nearly knocking into the woman standing beside them.
“Can I help you?” The woman purses her lips as Hermione approaches. She is older than the healers who had attended Hermione. Her short hair is streaked with gray, her plump face heavily lined.
Hermione bites her lip and rocks back on her heels. “I’m here to see my parents,” she says. “David and Miranda Granger.”
The healer’s eyes sweep over Hermione. Her eyebrows rise.
“You’re Hermione Granger, aren’t you?”
Hermione exhales, nods.
“Well,” the healer holds out her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Granger. I’m Healer Stroud.”
“Pleasure.” Hermione shakes the woman’s hand, peering around her at the heavy doors.
“It’s your first time visiting them, isn’t it?” Healer Stroud murmurs, her gaze following Hermione’s.
“I was just discharged today,” Hermione replies, frowning slightly. “The healers kept me—”
“I know,” Healer Stroud cuts her off, waving a hand. “The whole hospital knows you’ve been here.”
“Oh.” Hermione chews her lip. Her eyes drift again to the heavy doors, and she wonders if Healer Stroud would stop her if she simply let herself in.
“I trust Mr. Weasley has told you what to expect?”
“Er—” The question is enough to pull Hermione’s attention back to the woman in front of her. Her frown deepens. “No—what—?”
The healer clucks her tongue. “He told us the two of you had been looking for possible counter spells to undo the memory alterations. We’ve tried a number of tactics and have had mixed success.”
Stroud’s mouth puckers and she catches Hermione’s eye. “Those were tightly tied memory charms that were put on them. They’ve been difficult to undo.”
Hermione nods, sucks in a breath as she glances again at the doors. “You said you’ve had some success, though?”
The healer nods. “We’ve been able to remove all of the implanted memories. They know they’re David and Miranda Granger, rather than someone else.
Hermione breathes in at her parents’ names, the shape of the sounds against her ears.
She gives Healer Stroud a smile, reaching for the door. “That’s—”
“There’s more,” the healer says, laying a hand on Hermione’s forearm. “You should know before you go in.”
Hermione’s brow wrinkles. “What is it?”
“We haven’t been able to recover the memories that were destroyed by the charm,” Stroud says. “But there are certain things that—that can rise to the surface even in the face of the most advanced magic.” She huffs, and retracts her hand from Hermione’s arm. “They know they have a daughter.”
Hermione swallows, her stomach knotting. “What else do they know?”
“Broad strokes.” The healer pauses. “It can be difficult—I’m sure the Weasley boy told you about it.”
Hermione’s chest twists, and she shakes her head.
“The memories—the pieces that were removed by the memory charm—they’re still gone. But they leave traces.” The healer shifts, and her hand lands gently on Hermione’s arm again. “Your parents—they know they have certain feelings or hunches or worries, but no recollections to illustrate them. You can imagine how confusing it is, how frightening. There’s a lot they don’t understand and cannot understand.”
A breath wriggles its way out of Hermione’s chest. “Are you saying I shouldn’t see them?”
“I’m saying you should be prepared.” Healer Stroud again releases her hold of Hermione’s arm, watching her with a grim smile. “I’ve worked in memory care for almost thirty years, Miss Granger. Unrealistic expectations cause much greater heartache than most diagnoses.”
Hermione gives a short, jerky nod. “I understand.”
Healer Stroud fixes her with one last long, assessing gaze before stepping to the side and pushing open one of the doors. Hermione follows her inside, looking about the room with undisguised eagerness.
The Radford ward is small, cozy. It looks to Hermione to be a cross between the large, impersonal ward Mr. Weasley had occupied and the long-term arrangement inhabited by the Longbottoms. Five four-poster beds sit against the wall, each with a little nightstand tucked at its side. Two of the hangings are drawn, and three sit open.
To the right side of the ward someone has created a small sitting area, complete with a rickety bookshelf. Two of the armchairs are occupied, both inhabitants bent over a book.
Hermione’s chest pinches, and she feels the same overwhelming urge rise up within her as she did when she first saw them in Australia. She wants to run, knock past Healer Stroud, and hold on to both of her parents so tightly their skin melds together.
She inhales, and forces herself to keep walking calmly. She will not frighten them.
Her father has had a haircut since arriving in England, his brown hair closely cropped against his neck and ears. He leans against the arm of his chair, crossing a leg over his knee and adjusting the heavy volume in his lap.
Her mother sits to the right, still tanned and lean. Her hair hangs neatly at her shoulders, and she glances up at the sound of the door.
“Miranda, David,” Healer Stroud trills. “You two have a visitor.”
The Grangers both look to the healer, curiosity giving way to wariness as they catch sight of Hermione over her shoulder.
Hermione bites her lip, slowing her steps as she and Healer Stroud approach the sitting area.
She should have asked what they remembered of their time in Australia.
David Granger snaps his book closed and sets it on the arm of his chair, rising to his feet. Hermione scans his face, the forearms exposed by the rolled sleeves of his button-down shirt. Any remnants of his time as a hostage have been healed, much to her relief.
Miranda Granger moves slowly, carefully placing a bookmark between the pages of her paperback and setting it on the coffee table in front of her. She puts a hand to the arm of her chair and lifts herself up, coming to stand beside her husband.
David reaches out and takes his wife’s hand, looking down at her and furrowing his brow.
Miranda looks to Healer Stroud, then to Hermione. Her head cocks to the side and her dark eyes flit over Hermione’s face, brow knotting and then smoothing.
“We know you, don’t we?”
Tears well in Hermione’s eyes. She swallows, nods.
“Yes,” she says thickly. “You do.”
Miranda looks over her shoulder at her husband. She pauses, releases his hand, and takes a tentative step forward. Her eyes track hungrily over Hermione’s face.
David stays in place, his own expression inscrutable as he looks from his wife to Hermione.
Hermione does not move. She stands beside Healer Stroud, her arms at her side and bottom lip beneath her teeth, staring at her parents. If nothing else—if all goes to hell and she cannot do more—she thinks she will be satisfied with just looking at them. Knowing they are alive, knowing they are in the same room as her.
Miranda comes to stand just in front of Hermione, so close that they could touch without either moving their feet. Her throat bobs.
Hermione’s breath hitches. “Do you—do you know who I am?”
Miranda stays silent. Her gaze travels along the wild curls falling against Hermione’s shoulders, up over her forehead and down her face. Her lip wobbles.
“You have my eyes.”
A dam bursts in Hermione’s lungs and she lets out a cry, lurching forward and throwing herself against her mother’s chest.
“You’re here.” Miranda Granger is crying, her arms wrapping so tightly around Hermione’s neck they nearly choke her. “I didn’t think—but you’re here—”
Hermione takes a rattling breath and buries her face in her mother’s shoulder. “I thought I would never see you again. I thought—”
“We’ve been waiting for you to come,” Miranda whispers. “I’ve been waiting for you. I had to know you were really here.”
Her arms loosen from Hermione’s shoulders and she takes a breath, stepping away.
Hermione lets her arms fall. She takes a breath and looks up at her father. “Hi, Dad,” she says softly.
David Granger shifts his feet, still looking between Hermione and his wife. A crease has formed between his brows, and his mouth is pinched. For a moment, Hermione thinks he might ignore her altogether.
Slowly, without uttering a word, David holds out a hand. Hermione takes it, forcing her gaze down. Her father clasps her hand gently, giving it a firm shake before quickly releasing her.
“Let us go sit down,” Healer Stroud said, stepping beside Hermione and nodding towards the sitting area. “I’m sure you all have much you want to discuss.”
Hermione and Healer Stroud sink into an overstuffed loveseat. Hermione watches, with the utter fascination of a parent watching their newborn, as her parents settle into their seats.
Miranda drops into her armchair, legs crossed at the ankles. She runs the back of her hand over her eyes, gaze still fixed on Hermione. David stoops and picks up his book, lowering himself slowly into his seat and returning the thick hardcover to his knee.
Silence descends, punctuated by Miranda’s sniffs.
Hermione casts about for something to say, something to break the suffocating quiet. Something easy that will let them all talk like they used to.
She settles on the obvious question.
“What are you reading?” she asks, turning to her father and gesturing to the book under his hand.
David lifts the book up, flipping it so she can see the cover. “It’s an autobiography by Keith Richards.” He lowers the book and peers at Hermione. “I don’t suppose you know him? He was part of the Rolling Stones—”
“Yes,” Hermione says softly. “I know of him. You used to play their records at home.”
David’s brows knit together and he drops his eyes back to his book.
“Do you have any records here?” Hermione asks, leaning forward and fighting to keep her voice level. “Have you been able to listen to them?”
David shakes his head. “No. I tried, but Miriam here informed me that a record player wouldn’t be any good. Something about electricity not working—”
“Once you’re home,” Hermione says faintly, unsure of what else to promise. “It will work at home.”
David shrugs, his expression curtaining once again. “We’ll see, I suppose.”
Hermione bites her lip and turns to her mother. “What about you?” She glances down at the paperback book on the coffee table. Her breath catches as she recognizes the glossy cover.
“It’s a bit silly.” Miranda picks up the copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, a wistful expression clouding her face. “I used to love these books when I was a girl. Your friend—I don’t know how he knew—but he gave me this copy when he came to see us and I thought—well, I thought it would be lovely to read it again.”
Hermione swallows heavily, not sure what to do with the knowledge George had visited her parents, that he had recognized the little book stolen from the Darling Square Library.
Her throat tightens as she looks down at the book again, the cover glinting in the light. “We read them together,” she whispers. “You and I did. You wanted to read them to me because you loved them so much.”
Miranda's face tightens. “I always said I wanted to read the series aloud to my children.” Her eyes flick up, land on Hermione’s face. Her mouth pinches as she sets the book down again. “Did you like them?”
Hermione breathes in heavily. “Yes,” she croaks, nodding her head with a jerk. “I loved them. I always wished we had gotten to finish the series.”
Miranda frowns. “I didn’t read all of them to you?”
Hermione shakes her head. “I went to school,” she whispers. “When I was eleven. And we never got to finish it.”
Miranda says nothing. She looks down, rubs her thumb over the book spine. “I must have missed you so terribly when you were gone.” She glances up. “I wish I remembered it.”
“I’m sorry.” The words crack as they leave Hermione’s tongue, and her ribs ache. “I’m so sorry.”
Fat tears blossom and fall against Miranda’s cheeks. Beside her, her husband leans over and takes her hand.
Miranda hiccups. “You got your father’s hair,” she murmurs. “It has a mind of its own.”
Hermione nods. “You used to have me sit on the floor of the sitting room so you could plait it in the morning.”
“Did I?” Miranda’s face crumples, and she lets out a soft cry.
“Just tell me you were happy,” she says, sniffing and watching Hermione with a look of such wavering uncertainty Hermione feels her ribs contract. “You were happy with us, weren’t you?”
Hermione nods again, her own tears pooling. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I was. It was—” she heaves a breath, steadying herself. “We used to go to the library down the street every Sunday. You would let me pick out one book to take home, but most weeks I convinced you to let me take two. And then we would spend the afternoon reading together, and Dad would put on a record and you would make a roast.”
Miranda’s face falls and she turns away. Her shoulders shake. “There’s so much—” she croaks, voice muffled. “So much we can’t—”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” Hermione quivers. She leans forward, reaching out to put a hand on her mother’s arm. “I didn’t—I only wanted to keep you safe.”
Miranda’s cries come louder, and her arm flinches under Hermione’s fingers.
“I just don’t understand,” Miranda whimpers. “I don’t understand why it had to—”
Hermione’s lip trembles. Her vision blurs as the tears build up in front of her eyes like bricks. “I didn’t—”
Miranda leans away, her arm slipping out of Hermione’s grip as her cries continue.
David puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder and looks past Hermione to Healer Stroud. “I think—I think now isn’t the best time.”
The healer turns to Hermione, putting a hand to her elbow. “It might be best for us to be done for today,” she says gently. “There’s a lot for everyone to think about. Let’s take the night and we can all talk again tomorrow.”
Miranda sniffs and shakes her head, her face in her hands. David sits still, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulder and leaning towards her.
Hermione stands, a hand coming up, reaching for something that doesn’t meet her.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, the words thick and useless. “I’m so sorry.”
Neither of her parents answer, and Hermione allows Healer Stroud to nudge her out of the room.
The heavy door creaks closed behind them and Hermione leans against the wall. Her head hangs heavy, and her eyes burn. She sinks down, her knees coming to her chest as the tears burn hot against her eyes.
The sobs erupt from her chest, boiling over her tongue. Hermione lets her head fall into her hands as the grating, shaking cries thrash within her.
“Let it out, darling.”
Healer Stroud kneels beside Hermione, a hand coming to her shoulder.
“Just let it out. Nobody’s here.”
Hermione takes a breath, her chest feeling as though it is collapsing in on itself. The healer’s hand moves from her shoulder to her back, pressing against her shoulder blade.
A renewed gush of tears forces its way out of her, and Hermione leans into the healer’s touch, wishing it was George’s. His absence lingers beside her like a shadow, and the cries deepen as she thinks of him.
She hugs her knees tighter.
“I’ve ruined everything,” Hermione sobs. “I always ruin everything.”
“Now, now, dear,” the healer murmurs. She shifts and the weight of her hand disappears from Hermione’s back. “I’m sure that’s not the case. These visits are difficult, when memory spells are involved. Your parents are frightened. Everything is new for them right now.”
Hermione shakes her head, leaning forward and grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to quell the tsunami of tears spilling over her cheeks. “They’re not going to come back, though, are they?” she asks, voice warbling.
She looks up, takes a breath that feels like coals raking down her esophagus. “We’re not going to be able to get back the memories I destroyed. I’m never going to really have my Mum and Dad again.”
The healer hesitates. “It’s quite difficult to recover memories that have been so thoroughly removed,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean your parents are gone.”
Hermione sniffs, leaning her head back against the wall and hiccuping.
The healer peers at her, reaching into the pocket of her robes and withdrawing a handkerchief which she hands to Hermione.
“Miss Granger, Do you know why memory spells are so dangerous?”
Hermione pauses, dabs at her face with the handkerchief. She shakes her head.
“It’s because our memories are what make us human,” Healer Stroud says quietly. “They’re what keep us connected to other people, even if those people are no longer with us. When we lose our stories we lose the tethers that hold us to the ones we love.”
Another sob loosens. Hermione hands the handkerchief back to the healer, dropping her head into her hands again. Healer Stroud’s hand comes back to her shoulder, and she takes a breath.
“So I’ve just destroyed everything that ties my parents to me. I destroyed my family.” Hermione looks up and catches the healer’s eye, trying to muster a crumb of resolve. “There has to be something else we can try. Something we haven’t thought of that will bring back—”
Healer Stroud gives a small, sad smile. “Miss Granger, we can keep trying to recover them, if that’s what your parents want. There are always experimental potions and spellwork that can be applied. But—” she pauses, glances down at Hermione. “That’s not always the best pathway.”
“How—”
“Whenever there is a loved one struggling with memory loss—whether it is magically induced or not—the natural reaction is to try and figure out how to preserve as many memories as possible.” The healer squeezes Hermione’s shoulder, eyes softening. “But I’ve worked in these wards for the last thirty years, and I think that in most cases that’s the wrong line of questioning to follow.”
Hermione hiccups again, breathing in heavily and frowning. “How can it be wrong? Those memories—”
“Memories are sacred to the people they include,” Healer Stroud says. “But they’re not precious. We make new ones every day.”
Hermione swipes her face with her palms, heart still skittering.
The healer pats her shoulder and continues. “Just because some memories are lost doesn’t mean that the person is gone. I worry that in this ward many people spend so much time trying to hold on to old memories they forget to make new ones. And when we stop creating new memories we stop living.”
Hermione lets out a heavy breath. Her shoulders sink forward, the burning behind her eyes finally cooling.
“I should have just left them in Australia,” she whispers to herself. “It would have been kinder. I should have just let them forget about me.”
“My dear girl, do you really think a charm could have removed you from their lives entirely?”
Wobbling breath passes through Hermione’s lips. She turns to look at Healer Stroud over her shoulder. “They’re muggles—”
“Do you think muggles don’t feel love?” The healer gives her an almost pitying look. “Magic—even complex magic—has limits. They would have known you were out there, the way a child knows their mother has entered a room without even seeing her, the way twins know the other is in danger without a word being spoken. Love that deep, it marks our hearts. It changes who we are. No magic can fully erase that.”
Hermione lets out a sigh and falls back against the wall, letting her eyes flutter closed. Her body deflates, all of her energy leaking out of her pores as the tears dry sticky on her skin.
She wants to sit here, lean her head back, and be in darkness for hours.
“I know today was challenging,” Healer Stroud says, giving Hermione’s shoulder a final squeeze and rising to stand. “Your parents—there’s a lot to take in right now. There’s a lot of pain and missing pieces that may never be recovered. But that doesn’t mean it’s all ruined.”
“What do I do, then?” Hermione asks, hating how the words quiver, how her voice threatens to crack in two. “What do I do now?”
Healer Stroud gives another tight, kind smile. “You can come back tomorrow. It may take a few visits for them to get comfortable, but you can keep filling in some of those missing pieces for them. And soon—someday soon—they can go home, and you all can continue creating memories and creating a life together. It just takes time.”
Hermione takes a breath and closes her eyes at the word. Time.
It seems to be all she has now: a never-ending string of tomorrows.
She turns her head to the side, looks again at the heavy doors. A line drifts into her head, a quote from one of her mother’s Shakespeare plays. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
Hermione brings her head down and rests it against her kneecaps. That is what sits in front of her: tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
She heaves a final, scratching breath. If tomorrows are what she has, then she will make good use of them.