Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
How long had she been doing this?
The thought surprised her, causing a sharp inhale, the air trapped in her lungs until she remembered the pattern. Exhaling slowly, chapped lips pressed together, their surface desperate for moisture. It took the strength of a lion to push her tongue forward to wet them, ever-conscious of the rhythm that guaranteed survival.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
This time, a cold, sterile smell filled her nostrils, her nose crinkling slightly, the world still in darkness. Swollen fingers gathered a light fabric between them, moving in slow, concentrated circles. One arm, she felt, was draped across her torso, bound closely to her, and it was so great effort to move her free hand that it threatened to plunge her back into unconsciousness.
A dull pain pulled from the back of said hand, signaling that her freedom could not be won so easily.
Brown eyes fluttered open ever so slightly, the harsh light blinding upon first sight. Her world was a blur, and from the small sliver she allowed herself, the tired orbs focused first on the wires connected to her hand, trailing along them until they cascaded out of sight behind her, further than the pain in her shoulders would allow her to turn her neck.
It was then that her eyes fell upon the machine to her right, its shape distorted by the light filtering in through a window behind it. The blinds were closed, a mint curtain hanging limply but open, the machine beeping methodically, unfeelingly, comfortingly.
It was this sound that had kept her company since her arrival. How many hours she had lain unfeeling, unthinking beside it, her only company the shadow of a dream teetering on the edge of a nightmare. Hours alone… or had it been days?
The young woman's brow knit with confusion and a suppressed cough escaped her still-chapped lips.
The muffled noise was enough to stir a figure just below the window, and she was suddenly aware that she was not, indeed, alone.
Her lashes fluttered together furiously, heavy though free of any real burden; as the blurred edges sharpened, what she had thought to be dark, low wall, emerged with a head of blonde hair, strong hands wiping his own eyes in an effort to focus on her. His movement forward was so swift he staggered, barely keeping himself upright. What a pair they made, she thought.
"Hermione?"
The word was unfamiliar to her, but the voice sounded of home. Whatever that was.
Again she blinked, and when her almond eyes opened again, the boy was approaching cautiously, one hand outstretched. His green-gray eyes were washed with relief, sleep caught lingering in their corners, but they remained glued to her.
Her first attempt at speech was nothing but a raspy breath, a cough catching up quickly, and another attempt to lift her hand to her lips was thwarted by its necessary chains.
"Hold on," came the voice again, eager and gentle, as she watched the young man bolt for a table on the other side of the room, never taking his eyes from her. He fumbled with a pitcher and a glass, and the sound of falling water had never been so soothing.
"What the bloody hell are you– Mione!"
Another voice, this one lower and more ill-tempered came from her left, and she chased its words to a second young man perched in a chair by the door. He was paused mid-movement, one hand in his messy mop of red hair, the other his only brace to keep him upright. He looked as though he had seen a ghost, and yet blue eyes swept towards her, their look softening as their lids widened in disbelief.
"She just woke up," came the voice from before, the blonde stepping forward on her right side, bearing the cup of liquid gold carefully in hand.
Attempting to sit up, she found herself tangled in the cords, hindered by her presumably broken arm, and both boys reached forward to help her. The movements were so sudden that they caused her to flinch back into the pillows, a pain searing through her neck and she turned away.
The red-head had his hands outstretched towards her, his brow furrowed.
His mate held one hand up in surrender but continued to move toward her. "Here, let me help," he soothed. His gaze scanned her features for any hint of a reaction as he brought the cup to her lips, taking a knee by the bed to assist her.
Water had never tasted so good, and she finally managed to lift her fingers to urge the cup higher, draining every drop. When her energy was exhausted, the glass empty, she slumped back against the pillows, savoring the taste.
The boys were exchanging glances, and her eyes bounced back and forth between them as though watching a tennis match, the pounding of her chest matching the escalating beep of the machine at her side.
"Hermione, it's alright. You're safe here."
What was the pattern?
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale… "Where am I?"
This time, the broad-shouldered boy towering on her left replied. "St. Mungo's, Hermione… You've been here for a week."
Not minutes, not hours, but days. She'd been caged in the darkness for seven days. The thought was dizzying.
"You're safe, Hermione," came the first voice again, and she searched eagerly for his gaze. Inhale, exhale, repeat. "He can't find you here. He's gone."
Who? Who was gone? Who had done this to her? And why? Why her? It was enough to send her reeling.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
She reached out a hand to grip the covers, desperate to steady herself, but her fingers were swallowed by a hand twice as large as her own. Resisting the urge to pull away, she fixed her eyes on her feet, memorizing the pattern of the hand-knit blanket that was thrown over them. The colors were warm and welcoming, a far cry from the rest of the room's dressings. It smelled of cinnamon and fire, a faraway place she could not name.
"Hermione, what is it?"
Finally, she pushed past the lingering haze to ask the question that had been fighting forward from the beginning. "Do I…" With a final glance at each of the boys, she returned to the rhythm.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
"…do I know you?"