Your body heals--and you get a glimpse of HER!

(All characters mentioned in this work and in every oncoming continuation of said work are at least 18 years of age.)

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It's been almost a week since you can feel your lower pectoral region again without coughing uncontrollably. You feel lucky, because, for some reason, you have hardly ever seen anyone else in the hospice beside Madam Pomfrey and the one or another occasional house-elf coming by to bring you your meals. And boy, how good are these meals! Rotisserie Chicken, garnished with the most exotic spices and with what felt like a ton of mashed potatoes as a side dish. And for dessert, everything, ranging from banana splits over rainbow-flavored ice cream to sinfully delicious chocolate cakes.

What for breakfast? Mountains, made out of crispy pieces of toast bread stapled on each other; just as crunchy as the eggs and bacon that come with it. Not to mention the sweet, cool taste of pumpkin juice that gets served with every meal you receive. You recall asking once for a glass of butterbeer, which earned you a stern look from Pomfrey and apologetic negations from the house-elves. They probably have been told not to get you the famous brewage you've always wanted to taste before. Even though you technically are allowed to drink it, they probably just don't think you're physically ready. Or rather your body, for that matter.

Since you're not that much of a people's person, you have been feeling sort of content that you have been able to enjoy your food without the stares of others, like the ones you've suffered before from Dumbledore and the rest of the gang when you've met them. Which feels indeed strange, because, as you remember reading in the books, the hospice is usually full of people with the most genuinely stupid accidents-- a dangerous plant spitting poisonous seeds at you, your teeth growing to the size of baseball bats, somebody (Slytherins) throwing "accidentally" a curse on you or, classically, you somehow getting all your bones turned clockwise due to a Quidditch foal. Why haven't you met anyone else, yet?

´Maybe it's the beginning of the school year, and nothing happened, yet. Or maybe they're trying to hide me from the students?', you theorize from time to time, without granting any of said thoughts too much attention.

But you concentrate not too much on that question since you need the medicaments to kick in and the numbness in your chest to vanish. The school nurses aren't sure if their magic medicine works for your "Muggle body" as well, so, to not risk any more accidents, they've been treating you with occidental herbs and Muggle medicine (mostly pills) Hagrid somehow has been transporting here from the....other world. You're thankful. They really try their best to not make you worry about your health. Which is good, for your biggest pill to swallow is still lying around somewhere. The truth.

You've been thinking that all of this still could be a dream. Or a long coma your mind has tried to make pleasant for you to endure better, if that's how comas work, you're not sure. Yet, the pain in your flesh, the people, the house-elves, the talking portraits (there is one of an old, somewhat-famous head nurse hanging near the door. Since she's usually depicted sleeping, you haven't changed more than a few words with her), and, well, everything else; this all feels too real to not be real. You have to face the music, as unbelievable as it sounds.

You're in the wizarding world. The world of Harry Potter and his friends. A world probably no one else in your reality has seen before. Or has this world now become your reality? A place you cannot escape from, no matter what you do? How desperately you try? Maybe you'll never return...

****

You've thought about escaping, you're thinking about staying. Even though the slight feeling of fear that has been creeping through the inner machinations of your mind, which is an enigma, has made you question whether or not you should feel safe here, your soul remains positive. An emotion of security is starting to replace your irrational prejudice against this world which you know so much about, yet also don't think to embrace it all. What dangers await you, should you have to stay here? And even if you do manage to escape from this castle that is set to become the battlefield of one of the bloodiest wars of this world's history, where do you go? After all, if you remember correctly, the events of the books and movies happen during the 90s, at least 20 years away from when and where you live, eat, chat, talk, laugh, jerk, worship, exist.

No****.

You_ won't get back. Not until this power, this mysterious , or whatever the hell you want to call it to comfort yourself and bestow your the heart with someone to blame, takes you back to your old reality. Do you miss it? Well, it's not, as if you had any pets to care for and feed. And the last time any of your friends or family have set food into your apartment feels like an eternity away. Probably the only person who will become even aware of your missing will be your landlord, and even he only comes to visit to get his rent. You shrug. If there's no one to miss you, there's no one for you to miss.
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Accepting your new life (for the time being), you chew on a piece of the steak a house-elf has brought you 11 minutes ago. After that "incident" with the Whomping Willow, as Madam Pomfrey would call it, you've had some trouble digesting anything denser than soup. You're happy that, at least, your physical health betters. With that in mind, a big, satisfying yawn escapes your mouth. Time to hit the sheets.

****

You hear it again, your eyes open, it's the door opening. Who's opened the door? What's going on here? Never before have you been so scared by a door's crying creaking noise, the feeble fanfare for a nightly visitor's entrance.

A moving heart is good. A bumping heart is great. A heart beating the bleeding fuck out of itself because of the high-volt jumping cables connecting it to a panicked, 350-gram thick piece of noodle-meat following its ancient animal instincts? Well, let's say you're not having the time of your life right now.

Should you turn your head? As far as you know in your current mental state, it could be the last time before it gets chopped off (´hopefully not only almost´), so putting it to use doesn't seem far-fetched.

Footsteps. Small. Gracious. They must be sneaking. If they're sneaking, they are not someone who is supposed to be here. A teacher, maybe? Snape, looking for a way to make you spill the beans and tell him the truth? After your first "encounter", you haven't seen neither him nor anyone else except Pomfrey and the house-elves in this room. Is he ignoring Dumbledore's orders? Only one way to find out.

Fast and regretting, you turn your head, resolved to face the danger, determined to look into the eye of the threat standing right next to your bed, resolute to fight your way out, if necessary. Ready or not, here comes John, motherfucker!

****

Although the candles are lightly dimmed, they shine brightly enough to make things appear clear and real. Short: It:s not that dark in the room. As your cordial organ is running three marathons at once, you look into the eyes of the intruder who backs away, gasping a little, perhaps surprised by you being awake. Heart skips a beat. Two beats. Three beats. You still there?

Who cares?! SHE is here.

In this simple fragment of eternity, you are floating towards the divine soul of a mortal goddess.

Brown. A dark, spiritful color; that and so much more you see. Fear and inquisitiveness, the greed for knowledge a curious cat preys upon a day and night's journey long. Fixed on a white fluid, her retina beholds an even darker pupil, that still, oh!, ignites a starved seeker's torch on his quest for wisdom. The cores of these mirrors to paradise aren't reflecting the candles' light. More, it's given to them by them. From above and below, the tiny lashes guard her eyes; like adorable soldiers, they stand and patrol next to each other in flawless order. Flawless. Yes.

Flawless, like her brows which hold her front. Is Atlas their name, as they're lifting what's futile to all? As if a little figurine is sliding down on them, they lead down to her pointy nose's bridge. What a cute one! It compliments, no,.....completes the center to the symmetrical portrait resting on her shoulders. Her open mouth denies you a view of her pearly teeth, all in magnificent order. And just like her lips, her lips (how soft are they?) frame said mouth, her cheekbones carefully construct the perfect shape of her oval head; what is it?; it's been blessed by the way of the universe, milky as it is; healthy and white, too, and truly so cleanly even (how odd!); it's flooded with her once-so-bushy, now straightened out and smooth-seeming hair on top. Again, the same mysterious, magical interpretation of light, oh glorious light! Brown.

You read this description in your head, again and again, yet you realize, even the most symphonious lyrics of a holy poet's ghost's ode must dance to a mere thousand ballades' beats to grasp the tip of the piece of paper they strive to be laid in, the text meant to put in together mere humane words to define her in her purest form. Impossible. Is that what they like to call an epiphany?

You don't know. You can't care. You're with her, and you know who she is, that it's her, and that she is here and that you are here with her. She's here with you. It's her. Her.

****

Being the cruel bitch it tends to be, reality throws you out of your hammock in the hanging gardens. It grabs you by your lower knees and pulls and pulls and pulls you down until you can't reach for the horizon anymore. You cry and scream and fight and beg, yet you see you need defeat. You have to return, now!

Back in the reality where Hermione Granger, the literal girl of your dreams, is standing right next to you, afraid and interested. Silence coats you two, maybe as means of protection from the danger of a cold winter's alarming rumor. One hand on her hip, the other on her gasping mouth, she stares at you, unsure of what you're about to do next. But do you even know it yourself?