Who Obliviated Hermione Granger In Fanfiction Scenes?

It's wild how many different reasons pop up in fan timelines for Ron being obliviated, and I find myself sorting them into a few emotional categories. In one common thread, someone erases Ron's memories as an act of protection—think of what Hermione did to her parents in 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows'. Writers transpose that idea: if a timeline becomes unbearably dangerous or full of grief, obliviating Ron spares him knowledge that would ruin his life. It’s messy and heartbreaking, but narratively tidy: remove the memory, remove the pain. Another frequent motive is tactical control. In alternate histories someone might have learned too much—about time travel, a dark plot, or a betrayal—so an Obliviate is used to keep the secret. That plays into darker themes of manipulation and consent. I always end up feeling for Ron in those versions; his loyalty makes him a target, and erasing him feels like stealing a piece of the trio’s soul.

When memory erasure shows up in the Potter films, the spell you almost always hear is 'Obliviate'. In the most obvious on-screen example, Gilderoy Lockhart tries to erase Harry and Ron's memories in 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets' — he says the word, the wand backfires, and the result is comic but also clearly a memory charm gone wrong that ends up taking chunks of his own mind. The filmmakers make the mechanics obvious: the incantation, a visible spell effect, and the immediate behavioral change. Another clear instance is in 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 1' where Hermione alters her parents' memories so they don't remember her and she can leave them safely. It's quieter and more intimate than Lockhart's pratfall, but the same core idea is on display: a deliberate memory change through magic. The movie shortens and simplifies the process from the book, but you can still see the emotional weight of a memory charm at work. Beyond those two, the films refer to memory charms and the Ministry's Obliviators more broadly, and often imply off-screen obliviation after incidents. In practice, if someone on screen visibly forgets something right after a spell is cast, it's intended to be 'Obliviate' or another unnamed Memory Charm; the visual language the directors use — a dulling of expression, a pause in action, rapid cutaway — signals that a memory wipe has occurred. I love how those scenes range from slapstick to heartbreaking, and they always leave me thinking about the ethics of erasing a life’s memories.

Memory magic in 'Harry Potter' is mainly about the Memory Charm, most famously cast with the word 'Obliviate'. I like to think of it as surgical happy-sad editing: a skilled witch or wizard pinpoints a memory (or cluster of memories), concentrates hard, waves their wand and either erases or alters that slice of a person's past. In canon we see this in action in a few different ways — Hermione deliberately uses it on her parents in 'Deathly Hallows' to give them new identities and send them away, while Gilderoy Lockhart’s backfired spell in 'Chamber of Secrets' shows how horribly wrong it can go when done clumsily. Ministry Obliviators are professionals who perform these charms on Muggles after magical incidents, and they have whole procedures to cover evidence and reconfigure recollection. It isn’t a simple zap; intent and skill matter. You can target specifics, disguise or replace memories, or (if done badly) wipe someone’s whole sense of self. There are also differences between charm types — Legilimency extracts or reads memories, while the Memory Charm modifies or removes them — and the law treats unauthorized alteration severely. I get chills thinking about the ethics behind it every time I reread those scenes, because it’s both wistful and creepy in equal measure.

For me, fan retellings treat obliviated memory like a storytelling tool with three main positions: the dramatic reveal, the gradual recovery, or the choice to leave it missing. Often writers aim for a cathartic moment where the memory snaps back right before the final confrontation or reunion, and that timing sells the emotional payoff — someone shouts a name, a familiar scent appears, or a long-hidden letter triggers the flood of images. I love when it’s done with sensory detail: the smell of rain, a half-remembered lullaby, a scar that tugs a thread of recollection. I also enjoy the quieter takes where the restoration is slow and messy. Authors build triggers across chapters so when the character pulls a single memory free it feels earned; this can be more realistic and allows exploration of identity, trauma, and consent. Sometimes the memories never fully return, and the retelling focuses on how relationships adapt. Either way, whether it’s instant reversal via some 'Obliviate' antidote or a years-long rediscovery, the timing is almost always chosen to maximize emotional truth rather than strict mechanics, which keeps me invested.

When authors want to show someone being obliviated, I love watching the clever absences they write into the story. They rarely just state 'memory erased' and move on — instead they craft holes. You get a sentence that trails off, a page with a ragged blank, or a character circling objects they can't place. Authors use physical anchors too: a photograph with a name scratched out, a scar the confused character keeps touching, or a bookmarked page with a note that reads like a lifeline. Those tactile things make the loss feel lived-in rather than explained. I notice they also play with point of view. In first person you get tiny jolts — a line of dialogue that the narrator reacts to with unease but can't explain. In third person limited, the narration tiptoes around what the character has forgotten, and sometimes the prose itself becomes fragmented, with clauses split and repeated as if memory is trying to reassert itself. Works like 'Harry Potter' show the cosmetic side of memory spells, while books such as 'The Rook' turn amnesia into a structural puzzle where notes and lists replace interior recall. The ethical fallout — who gets to erase, who keeps the secrets, how identity is rebuilt — often becomes the real story. I always come away thinking that obliviation in modern fantasy is less about the neat trick of forgetting and more about the ripple effects: the way absence shapes relationships, institutions, and the textures of daily life. It haunts me in the best possible way.