This chapter is dedicated to the amazing Nerys, for reminding me that writing is love, and that's why I do this. Thank you so very very much, I don't know if I could have finished this chapter tonight if it wasn't for your excellent timing.

Chapter 10

The trip through the searing light was less terrifying the second time around. Her mind accepted that there would be a level of pain involved, and she braced herself against the burning sensation that was her conscious mind awakening into the tactile feelings of her own flesh and blood body. Once sense at a time filtering through her mind, layer upon layer of the physical world built up into the present moment.

The scent of antiseptic and coarse hospital soaps. Of bitter smelling tinctures and spicy sweet potions, balm and blood and everything else that made up the familiar aroma of every infirmary she had ever been in. Combined and contrasted with the tang of wintergreen and peppermint, and the almost vinegary scent of ink. Smells that did not belong to the sickness here, something special.

Sound came next, filtering into long deaf ears. Heightened by the blind blackness behind her eyelids, nearly every sound coming muffled, as though from a distance, or through a door. Two sets of breath, one faint and peaceful, and the other halting and natural, as though pained or deep in thought. The second rhythm was unfamiliar, and Hermione paused for a moment to remember the pattern; a breath, a beat, two breaths, a beat... And on it went.

Taste and touch were next, the sticky, old-sock taste that comes of sleeping too long. Her tongue felt heavy and thick in her mouth, her throat aching from being unused for so long. Correction, in that her entire body ached. Muscles that had been strained, and then left too long without any motion at all. A deep and penetrating soreness that laced out from her left hip, the faint itchiness of flesh knitting slowly back together. A distant part of her mind questioned why it had not been healed by magic- and was pushed away for later examination.

Her body felt hollow and pitifully weak, laid amongst rough cotton sheets and wool blankets. The pillow beneath her head was thin and Hermione could feel tendrils of her wild curls tickling her cheek. But it was the touch that finally coerced her to open her eyes. A gentle, warm hand laid lightly across her own, an unfamiliar almost-caress. She matched the touch to the scent of wintergreen and mint, and her analytical mind pieced together this person as a stranger.

As she opened her sandy, gritty eyes, Hermione could feel her breath catch sharply in her chest. What met her eyes was something she could not have predicted, so much so that she could have almost sworn nothing could exist like that on this planet. Not her Earth, so blasted and ugly and filled with wretched people. This figure that stood before her was something almost otherworldly. A quote by Ralph Emerson slid neatly into her mind, "Beauty is God's handwriting." And if that were true, then this man was a great epic.

His whole being was surrounded in a corona of light, a pale golden aura the shade and hue of the setting sun. His hair was as black as ebony, framing a face that could only be described as beautiful. His face was a mask of concentrated though, as he stared down at where his hand rested against hers.

The eyes of this man were like nothing she had ever seen before. As veiled and gray as vault doors, shaded with black as he raised his gaze to the ceiling for a brief moment. Almost like a prayer, though to what God that vacant stare would beseech she could not even begin to guess. And then he spoke, his voice quiet and measured, and Hermione realized that no spirit would quote from Alice in Wonderland as her first herald to the afterlife.

"I can't explain myself, I'm afraid…"

And she finished the line, though it hurt to move her mouth around the shapes and syllables of speech. "For I am not myself, you see." The words were as familiar to her as home, taken from the pages of a book she had read a dozen times or more since she was very young. And while no saint would guide her to Heaven with the words, they were like the sweetest balm to her mind. Soothing away the residual fears of where she would find herself.

The young man looked at her, his eyes widening with surprise as he took in her now conscious form looking up at him. He had a gaze that looked through her, a moment in time that caught and paused against its usual flow. And it was barely more then a heartbeat, before those doors closed back against him, hiding whatever he might be feeling from her fruitless search.

"I didn't want you to die."

Came and went as though an afterthought, a small sentiment Hermione was fairly sure she was never supposed to hear. As she looked more carefully at him though, features pieced themselves out familiar, tugging at the back of her mind to where she had seen him before. But her mind was too tired, and too focused on the present to fill in the blanks, and so she pushed that too away for a time.

"I…" She began slowly, forcing her lips around the forms required to utter the English language. Her throat burned with pins and needles, dry and scratching like she had swallowed a sheet of harsh sandpaper. But apparently her noise was enough to snap this stranger more fully into the present, and he held his hand up slightly for her to stop.

"I'll get you some water."

His hand slid quickly, almost jerkily, away from her. Rapidly enough that she suspected he wanted (needed, more like,) a reason to be away from her. To compose his thoughts after her sudden awakening. Hermione blinked against the sudden chill that cooled her skin, she hadn't realized how natural his touch had seemed before it was taken away from her.

There were curtains surrounding her little cot, which would explain why so much of the ambient noise was silenced or muffled. Indeed, even his footsteps seemed father away once he stepped outside the realm of the hanging white sheets. Familiar looking sheets on old metal frames that clicked together as he slid them as quietly as he could, out of the way.

It was only a moment, though it seemed longer, until the handsome stranger reappeared at her bedside. In hand was a tall glass of water, tiny beads of moisture slipping down the side. Her body felt as though it was filled with lead weights, heavy and stiff and unwieldy, as she tried to sit herself up in bed. Her mouth was as dry as sand, as she pushed herself back against the headboard with agonizing slowness. She would not ask for help, she refused. Nor did she need it, though it was a close thing.

The glass felt slippery and awkward in her trembling hands as she held the cool edge to her lips. Hermione couldn't recall anything in the history of her life that had tasted to wonderful, quenching moisture to her parched body. Soothing away the burning roughness that had scratched and hurt when she had tried to speak. And for a long moment, eyes closed slightly, Hermione just let it begin to heal some of her aches.

The boy seemed content to watch her for the moment, his hand resting against the back of the chair he refused to sit it. Still, she could clearly see he was not relaxed- the tension in his body displaying how closely he listened to the world outside their sheeted enclave. When at last she set the glass down on the rickety little bedside table, Hermione asked him the question that she had wanted to ask before.

"Who are you?"

His mouth twitched a little at the side, as though he was resisting the urge to smirk or smile. His expression softened a little, as though minutely relieved that she wasn't going to do anything unexpected. Though, she wasn't quite sure what exactly he had been expecting.

"I'm Tom… And you?"

His voice was pitched low, obviously to avoid attracting unwanted attention. It was pleasant to listen to, a soft and even tone that didn't hitch or squeak. It wasn't demanding or embarrassed; and if anything, Hermione supposed that if it had a flaw, it would be that it was too calm. Too level, to the point of being rehearsed sounding. She nodded slowly, the little voice in the back of her head pointing out that it was just one more little fact towards remembering who he was, and why he seemed so familiar.

"Hermione, and thank you."

She added, glancing towards the glass of water. The droplets of condensation had begun to run down the sides of the glass, gathering in little pools on the tabletop. Her voice sounded strange to her ears, detached and polite- so much of the warmth that she had held as integral to her character missing. Just gone, as though it had been stripped away from the sound, leaving her with the voice of someone she barely recognized.

Tom nodded slightly, and looked as though he was about to say more, when the curtain that divided the two of them from the rest of the world, was pulled briskly out of the way. The effect was instantaneous, Hermione watched as a cold and impassive mask slid into place over his features, hardening them to a blank perfection. There was no sign of anything there, not even the tiny amount of interest that had seeped into his face, softening it, while they had talked- however briefly.

"What are you doing here?" The Matron asked, surprise written from ear to ear, a clean swath across her face. But Tom didn't answer, only giving the two women a very curt nod by way of goodbye. Turning swiftly, and letting his evenly measured steps carry him from the room, a little more quickly then he had on previous nights.

Hermione watched him go, until he disappeared around the Infirmary doors. A cold sense of loss, a hollow emptiness flared briefly in the pit of her stomach- pushing back towards the recesses of her mind before she would dwell on it any further. The room he had crossed was now only lit by the faded gray light that presages darkness, the beauty of the sunset hues vanished and gone. As though he had taken all that was lovely in that moment, and banished it with his departure.

To say that the Matron was surprised would be an understatement, but she was above all professional. A lively shrug to brush off the strangeness, before turning to Hermione with as bright a smile as she could muster.

"Good to see you awake, deary. Now let's take a look and see how you're healing up."

- ---

As always, a thanks to the people that review, you keep me writing with your subtle, and not so, hints!. I know I respond to all the signed reviews (I'd feel terrible not thanking you guys for your wonderful insights!) So I'm just going to quickly give you guys shouts by name )

Blindfaith

Annikacan

Svelte Rose

Speed of Darkness (hope you're doing better!!)

Flamelm

Nerys- I want the link to your story, so I can send you much reviews!

Ryn... you didn't sign the review, so Im going to add a reply to you right here (feel loved, lol!) Calculus is a very evil thing; don't let it get you down. To think that you use this as a bit of an escape is amazingly flattering, you're going to give me a complex ) and as for the "I cannot explain myself…" Yes, it is a quote from Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.