The first thing I noticed about Healer Mitchell were her legs. They were a metre and a half long, seeming to go on for miles and miles. When she sat down in the chair across from mine, her bright green robes fell back around her knees when she crossed her legs, exposing the lower portion of them. Her skin was pale. If she was self-conscious, she certainly didn’t show it. Then again, I highly doubted that a successful, attractive woman would be worried about flashing a bit of skin now and again, even to her patients.
“What’s the last thing you can remember?” she asked, tilting her head to the side and observing me with cold grey eyes.
“I-I dunno,” I muttered, averting my eyes away from her legs to stare at my hands. They’d spelled my last name on my hospital bracelet wrong.
“You don’t know or you can’t remember?”
I lifted a shoulder.
Healer Mitchell released a sigh, shifting about in her seat. “Look, Mr. Weasley, I can’t work with you if you’re not willing to work with me. In order to overcome this obstacle, we’re going to need to work together, which means that you can’t lift your shoulder because you’re afraid of your own answer.”
I looked up at her, frowning. “Who said I was afraid of my own answer?”
“No one said anything, Mr. Weasley,” Healer Mitchell began, draping an arm over the back of her chair as she eased into a more comfortable position, “but actions speak volumes more than words and that shrug told me everything I need to know about you.”
Did it tell her that I didn’t want to be here right now? That I would rather be back at my parents’ house, sitting in front of the television with Dad while Mum prattled on and on about our family, dragging photo album after photo album out from underneath the couch to show me various pictures of my family members and pointing them out. I held back a sigh at the thought; I had given up trying to tell Mum that my memory loss wasn’t long term. I still knew who I was, I just didn’t know what had happened in those three weeks leading up to my accident.
After a week of trying to recall the memories myself, Mum, along with Aunt Ginny and Grandma Molly, insisted that I see a specialist. Enter Healer Mitchell. She was the best in Britain, according to Mum. She had helped several Quidditch players recover from similar injuries, so why shouldn’t she be able to help me as well? After all, I had been hit in the back of the head with a Bludger. Of course, I wasn’t a professional and I hadn’t even participated in the game when a Bludger - hit by my own sister, funnily enough - nailed me in the cranium. Apparently I had been talking to my cousin Roxie about her upcoming trip to Romania, where she would be studying dragons with our Uncle Charlie.
The thing is that I don’t remember that particular conversation taking place. Or even going to the Burrow for a family gathering. Or anything that had happened three weeks prior to the Crack heard around the world. Which is why I was sitting on a stereotypical leather couch with a pretty, leggy, but all together annoyingly assuming Healer across from me, just assuming away about me.
“So, Mr. Weasley -”
“Call me Hugo. My dad’s Mr. Weasley,” I commented.
She smiled tightly at me. “All right then, Hugo. Tell me this: do you want my help or not?”
“Would I be here if I didn’t?”
“You’re evading the question. We both know that your mother insisted you come and see me; you’re too strong-willed to come here on your own. So,” she said, tossing her curtain of long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Do you or don’t you?”
I stared at her for a prolonged moment, taking in the angle of her head and the intensity of her eyes. She looked like she was interested, possibly even concerned for my well-being, but I had my doubts, mainly because I didn’t think this sort of thing worked. My cousin James had received several blows to the head via Bludgers and he had never lost his memory. Of course, his skull is considerably thicker than most, ergo much more difficult to crack. . .
“I want it,” I mumbled softly, raking my fingers through my hair.
“Pardon me?” Healer Mitchell said, an amused note in her low voice. “I didn’t quite hear what you said. Speak up, Mr. Weasley.”
My eyes narrowed at their own accord as I regarded her. “I said I want your help.”
“Are you going to cooperate with me? Because I need your full cooperation and dedication if you want to make a full recovery. This will take time and effort on both our parts. You cannot meet me halfway and decide to give up when you don’t receive immediate results. Like I said, this is going to take some time. Do you understand that, Hugo?” Healer Mitchell asked, focussing her startling grey eyes on mine.
I blinked, overwhelmed by the intensity of her stare. My mouth refused to form words. I nodded instead.
“Are you willing to do everything possible to get your memory back?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ll do anything. Just get me those memories back.”
Her lips pulled back into a wide grin. She looked smug, like she had just achieved an implausible feat. “Smashing.”
- - -
A/N: I know, I know. Another story, but I couldn't resist. I've been wanting to write a story centered around Hugo for quite some time now, and when this idea struck me, I ran with it. So, tell me what you think in a nice little review. That way I can decide if it's good enough to continue or not. Thanks for reading!