Hermione Granger couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that she might truly be emotionally confused. According to everyone else, Professor Lockhart had protected her during the battle with the Basilisk, while Malfoy had been the real culprit. Yet her own instincts told a different story. Somehow, her impressions of the two men were completely reversed—and that contradiction made her question herself.
Even Professor Dumbledore's recent words lingered in her mind, deeper and more cryptic than usual, as though he were hinting at something she couldn't yet grasp.
With the final exams canceled, the atmosphere at Hogwarts had relaxed almost overnight. After months of tension, the castle now buzzed with an unusual lightness. Students spent their days chatting in the courtyards or lounging by the lake. Harry, however, refused to be idle; he was determined to make up for lost time on the Quidditch pitch. Every day he practiced with fierce focus, darting through the air in pursuit of the Snitch.
Hermione often watched him from the stands, half-admiring, half-exasperated. Harry's dedication was admirable, but his priorities were not hers.
Ron, on the other hand, was more than happy to spend the afternoons cheering Harry on. When training ended, the two of them would return to the Gryffindor common room to play endless rounds of wizard chess. Sometimes they joined George and Fred Weasley's experiments with their latest inventions. Flush with new funds from their prank shop projects, the twins had entered a golden age of mischief.
Their current obsession was the Howler—and they had pushed it to wild new extremes. Not content with simple yelling letters, they now combined Howlers with other sounds: the crowing of roosters, the croaking of frogs, even the school song sung by a magically off-key chorus. Neville, unintentionally, had inspired one version when Trevor the toad croaked at an unfortunate moment.
Predictably, these items soon filled Filch's confiscated drawer—an entire compartment now reserved solely for the Weasley twins.
During the height of the Basilisk crisis, their "rooster Howler" had been tolerated, even appreciated, for easing the students' nerves. The professors, though irritated by the noise, had turned a blind eye, believing that laughter was the best defense against fear.
But now that peace had returned and the monster was defeated, Dumbledore and the staff saw things differently. Without the looming threat, the twins' pranks were again considered pure disruption.
So it was hardly surprising when George and Fred were invited to the Headmaster's office for "tea."
The results were immediate. The very next day, the twins ceased production of Howlers. Yet far from being discouraged, they seemed even more animated than before.
"My God—even the Headmaster wants to buy your Howlers?" Ron blurted out in disbelief later that evening, leaping from a scarlet armchair embroidered with golden lions.
"Of course," George said, puffing up proudly.
"The professor's always been open-minded," added Fred, waving his hand with mock modesty. "He's supported our pranks before. It's just that this time, our little letters might've gone a bit too far."
"Then why would Dumbledore want one?" Harry asked, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
"Well, that's a long story," George teased, wearing a mysterious grin.
"You'll find out by the end of term," Fred added with a knowing smile.
The two shared a glance that made Ron groan. When the Weasley twins looked that smug, it usually meant trouble—or brilliance—or both.
Sometimes, Hermione thought, the real difference between top students and poor ones wasn't intelligence, but discipline.
After hearing that the exams were canceled, most students treated the news like an early holiday. The library grew quiet, the classrooms emptier. But Hermione refused to slack off. For her, the pursuit of understanding wasn't about grades—it was about truth. And right now, truth was the one thing she desperately needed.
Her routine hardly changed. She still spent her mornings buried in books, her afternoons reviewing notes, and her evenings revisiting unanswered questions.
One morning, after Charms class, she lingered as everyone else packed up. When the last student had gone, she approached Professor Flitwick's desk.
"Professor," she began hesitantly, "I was hoping to ask you something."
Flitwick looked up with his usual cheerful smile. "Ah, Miss Granger! What's your question today?"
The tiny wizard's warm tone always made students comfortable. Though short in stature—his goblin ancestry had left him barely taller than the desk—his spirit filled the entire room. Unlike certain other short individuals who suffered from a lack of both height and humility, Professor Flitwick was universally respected.
He was known not only for his dueling skill—he'd once been a champion—but for his humor and patience. Many students joked that if someone could combine Flitwick's cheerfulness with Professor McGonagall's stern authority, they would create the perfect teacher.
Hermione had always been one of his best students: diligent, precise, endlessly curious. To most of the staff (Snape excluded), she was the model pupil.
So when she stopped him after class, Flitwick expected another technical question about spell structure or incantation rhythm. But as she spoke, his expression slowly shifted from amusement to thoughtful silence.
"Professor," Hermione said quietly, "is there any way to restore memories that have been erased by a Memory Charm?"
Flitwick tapped his wand against the stack of books beside him, thinking. After a moment, he said carefully, "Miss Granger… do you believe your amnesia was caused by a Memory Charm?"
Hermione didn't answer aloud, but the look in her eyes was enough.
"Hmm," he murmured. "That's a complicated matter indeed."
She waited, heart pounding.
"According to the standards of the wizarding world," Flitwick began, "there's only one reliable method: the original caster must be the one to restore it."
Hermione's shoulders fell. That was exactly what she'd feared—and it was no help at all.
But Flitwick wasn't finished.
"Of course," he continued with a faint smile, "that's the official answer. You could have asked any professor and received it in less than a minute. But since you came to me, perhaps I can offer something… slightly beyond the textbook."
Hermione's eyes brightened with cautious hope.
Flitwick puffed up his chest slightly, his tone half-proud, half-sheepish. "As the head of Ravenclaw House, I rather pride myself on keeping an open mind. I read widely—not only wizarding texts but also works from the Muggle world. And I happen to recall a few relevant theories."
He lowered his voice. "You see, magic isn't omnipotent. Even a Memory Charm has limits. If your suspicion is correct, Miss Granger, then your lost memories might leave… traces—echoes, instincts, emotions that remain beneath the surface."
He conjured a tiny image in the air, illustrating as he spoke: a shimmering thread of light being frayed but not severed.
"There was once a wizard," he said gravely, "who was struck by Obliviate and forgot nearly everything about his life. Yet when he later saw the man who had murdered his family, he reacted instantly—he drew his wand and cast Avada Kedavra without hesitation. His conscious mind remembered nothing, but his instincts did."
Hermione listened, transfixed.
"According to certain Muggle scientists," Flitwick went on, "some impressions are stored deeper than conscious thought—like instincts. If I were to cast Obliviate to make you 'forget' to eat, would your body truly forget hunger? Would your instincts obey the spell? Likely not."
He chuckled softly at his own thought. "In that sense, if Obliviate could truly erase such impulses, it might well deserve to be counted among the Four Unforgivable Curses."
The joke wasn't particularly funny, but Hermione smiled politely all the same.
Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "You, Miss Granger, are Muggle-born. You understand both worlds more deeply than most. That gives you an advantage. During your summer holiday, you might visit a Muggle library and look into studies of memory, trauma, and stimulus. You may find answers there that we wizards overlook."
"Stimulus?" Hermione repeated softly.
"Yes," Flitwick said. "Stimulation can sometimes awaken what is buried. A sound, a scent, a familiar place—any of these might stir the subconscious. If there is truly something locked away in your memory, it may not take a spell to retrieve it. Sometimes the mind just needs the right key."
He checked his watch and sighed. "Ah, I must prepare for my next class. But I do hope, Miss Granger, that my answer helps—even a little."
With that, he hopped down from his "book tower" and waddled toward the door, robes fluttering behind him.
Hermione stood where she was, watching him go. His final word echoed in her mind.
"Stimulation…" she murmured under her breath, lost in thought.
Could that really be the key?
If her emotions were misaligned—if she felt sympathy where she should feel suspicion, or warmth where there should be guilt—perhaps it wasn't confusion at all. Perhaps it was memory trying to surface, a truth fighting to return.
But what could trigger it?
Her gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the sunlight shimmered across the Quidditch pitch where Harry practiced, a blur of motion and laughter. Nearby, Ron waved from the stands, shouting encouragement. George and Fred were showing off yet another gadget to a group of giggling first-years. Everything looked so normal, so alive.
And yet, within that ordinary scene, Hermione sensed something hidden—something she had once known and lost.
Her mind began to race. Dumbledore's cryptic remarks, Lockhart's supposed heroism, Malfoy's guilt, and her own tangled emotions—they all pointed toward the same missing piece. If Flitwick was right, logic alone wouldn't recover it. She would need something deeper, something that could pierce through the veil that Obliviate had left behind.
Maybe a scent. A sound. A moment of danger. Or maybe… someone.
Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, letting the thought settle. Somewhere in the intersection of magic and memory lay the answer she sought.
And when she found it, she promised herself, she would face it—whatever truth awaited her there.
To be continued…
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