Imago Mirror

by November Crash

Their first meeting can not be described as anymore than a long and intense stare in a crowded bar, yet the both of them can feel so much more than that hiding under the surface! Not long after their first encounter, House and November meet yet again - in the hospital, as doctor and patient. He needs his cane, she in turn needs her wheelchair. And as their time together passes they

3. Chapter 3 Pain

Chapter 03 - Pain

They had said good-bye. So, there she was, on her own, again. Didn´t know where she´d find him again. Didn´t even know his actual name, just the name of his buddy. It was only on her way home that November realized just how cold it had become in the meantime. The night suddenly had lost the levity they had enjoyed together just a moment ago.

Back home, she holed up in her bed and clung to her pendant. She could not find sleep yet. With every passing hour, this heaviness she felt so constantly, questioning life itself, making her melancholic, almost depressive, caught up with her again. A heaviness which let her hardly suffer other people because none of them understood her, because none of them knew how much fighting spirit this life demanded from her. She always felt misunderstood, when people simply transferred their own ideas and plans to November's life and thought it actually was simple like that. She had gotten accustomed to it by now, she hardly knew it any differently, after all. But now that she had experienced the opposite and retrospectively realized how joyous and lighthearted she had been in those fifteen minutes, the else so unexceptional blow was all the harder.

The second try to actually drive Wilson home was much more successful and carried out without any incidents. Wilson had sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes closed and his head leaned against the cool pane, exhausted. House was certain his friend would not forget this jag so soon. The unpleasantness of vomiting and the following disgusting taste in his mouth, they would be harmless, compared to the headache waiting for Wilson within the coming 24 hours, about to give him a feeling of remorse without doubt. A hint of schadenfreude still showing in the corners of his mouth, House had observed how his friend had managed to walk up the driveway and into his own house even pretty much the straight way. Now he could rest assured that Wilson had arrived back home safe and sound and head back home himself with a clear conscience.

Finally on the way to his apartment, House sat in his car, on his own again, and was enjoying the familiar bur. The old engine's quiet and constant humming blended with the typical rough rolling noise of the tires, while the whistling wind brushed past the side windows and shook the right tailgate from time to time. He loved his Dodge Dynasty. Driving it gave him a feeling of shelter in a weird way. After all, he owned this vehicle since several years already, knew the sound of its engine inside out and each and every steering motion told him whether everything was fine or it was time to pay another visit to a mechanic soon. All too often, he had to listen to people telling him that this car didn´t suit him at all and how it was the absolute antithesis to his state-of-the art motorcycle. But in truth, for House it was exactly this which constituted this old gem's charms.

He glanced to the dashboard clock. Not even six more hours until his next duty. He would take a nap at home and catch up with sleep for the remaining hours in the morning somewhere, in some patient room. He never missed a chance to skip clinic duty otherwise either.

The sounds of his Dynasty were comforting and familiar as always. House's hand unconsciously wandered to the center console and turned on the radio. He liked the title that was playing. He turned up the volume, listened to the words of Fleetwood Mac and let his thoughts drift, while he continued to drive through the night.

watch?v=mrZRURcb1cM

Dreams von Fleetwood Mac

[…]

But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad

Yes, House thought to himself silently, he was used to the sound of loneliness. It was around him every day all the same, when he came home to nothing else but his empty apartment and his silent piano, patiently waiting to be played by him. It was true, this sound could drive you crazy.

In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost, and what you had, and what you lost

He heard the lines and out of nowhere suddenly the face of November appeared before his eyes, as if it was close enough to touch. Her smile, her wheelchair, the symbiotic drawing of tree and guitar, the knowing glances she had given him and this strange feeling of intimacy… It had been exactly that, which he had had tonight and had lost again. And he didn´t understand why, but all of a sudden, he felt something like loss.

Thunder only happens when it's raining
Players only love you when they're playing
Say women they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean, you'll know, you'll know

Now that she wasn´t there anymore, he felt all the more pronouncedly how intense November´s presence had been. He could not remember to have ever met a person like her. In his memories, it seemed to him as if he had not only felt her weaknesses and unspoken suffering, but also her inner strength and her will to survive. Yet another thing they both seemed to share! His own life, too, was a daily struggle for survival. He, too, was someone who could be unhinged, heavenly joy, deadly sorrow.

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions
I keep my visions to myself, it's only me
Who wants to wrap around your dreams and,
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

Dreams and memories, things he kept to himself? That was all that would be left to him from this one-off meeting. What did he know about her, after all? Well, her first name. But else? The chances to find her in any address lists and phone directories were as bad as to go back to that bar once more in hopes of meeting her there again. So, all that was left to him was dreaming, recalling the memories as often as he could.

Dreams of loneliness,
Like a heartbeat, drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering, what you had,
And what you lost, and what you had, and what you lost

[…]

November, House repeated her name in his head. Two times he had met her tonight and he could sense that she would keep him company further, sleeping, through the night and maybe even through the next day.

Drugs and music were the sole companions knowing what was going on with November in the past days and hours. She could have told Ben about it. But she didn´t want to see anybody now, would not find in Ben what she had sensed in herself and lost again, tonight. If Ben came to see her now, the agony and insight, so clear to her in this moment, would be even more painful. Again and again, individual images and words appeared before her: his looks, the bright eyes, "cool wheelchair", he, eye in eye with her at the wall of the house, his buddy with the pendant in his hand, the problem with the knot, the cane with the flame pattern. She caught herself closely observing her memories of him again and again – his tall stature, the three-day stubble, his blue eyes, his exhaustion when he had found Wilson, his eyes, never leaving her, once he had recognized her. And his scent and with it the feeling of safeness and comfort right next to him, over and over, she conjured it up in her thoughts. The carelessness, the knowledge that he understood. The feeling of somehow having arrived. But when she found her way back into reality, nobody was there and even the memory of the scent faded more and more. Time and time again there was only the pain of this loss, in particular the desperation, heavy like a blanket of lead, covering her more and more. Not again, went through her head repeatedly. Why do I always have to lose all those who can give me just what I need most urgently? It was just what she had experienced in her past several times already, after all. Time after time, she lost contact because circumstances didn´t allow otherwise. Yet again? What have I done to deserve this?! This time, she did not even have the option to reestablish contact – to visit him, call him, text him or send him an email. The tears ran down her face, silent and asking, and the pain joined with ire to form a feeling she could sense throughout but could not name. Thus, it crushed her, like the other two times.

House hadn´t managed to really find much sleep even at home in his bed, his thoughts constantly revolving around November like this and keeping him awake. He had not been ready to put up with the fact that the encounter with November did not want to leave his thoughts and had grimly sought for the answer to the question of why his memory clung to November so desperately.

House was barely surprised that Wilson did not appear at work the next day, but – as he found out while rummaging unobserved in Cuddy's office in the course of the morning – had called in sick for the next two days. The sick note he saw on Cuddy's desk brought another cheeky grin to his face and yet at the same time brought back the unwanted memories of November, which he just couldn´t suppress apparently… He with her, on the stairs – their short, yet somehow intense conversation – and the puking Wilson in the background.

If he was honest, he owed his thanks to his friend, for being so plastered and thus bringing him together with November. But firstly, House wasn´t honest in such matters, and secondly, Wilson would not be able to recall anything anyway, if he would ask him about it, come Wednesday. So, he was convinced that the memories of the encounter with November soon would start to fade away as well.

House spent the afternoon with Mrs. Pickwitch. An elderly lady, in her early sixties, who was comatose now since almost three years, rarely ever got visitors anymore and surely would not mind him keeping her company and taking a little nap.

More or less well-rested, House dragged himself home early in the evening and became absorbed in playing his piano. His sanctuary, where he could be just himself. He found solace in the music, a bit of support, which he lacked so much in his day-to-day life, since he was alone. It was his way to express what he felt and to reflect on himself. Losing himself in endless, lonely blues chords, his hands slid over the black and white keys and brought an easing of the tension, deep inside him. The coming night was awaiting him, hopefully without any dreams of November this time. But no sooner had he thought of her name than the images inside his head were back: her short blond tousled hair, her gray-blue eyes, the green and white blouse she had worn and the silver necklace with the pendant around her neck. He had to acknowledge to himself that it was not only her personality and her looks, which did not let him rest. She had also aroused his inquisitiveness as a physician and diagnostician. As it was, even after much thought, no condition had come to mind which explained all of her symptoms. Or rather he knew too little about her symptoms to commit himself to a specific diagnosis. She could walk a few steps and obviously only needed the wheelchair for long distances. Though 'long' clearly was a question of definition. To tie a knot into a cord, though, was already considerably more difficult for her….

He would have loved to present her to his team as a new case and let the other three guess what the causes for November's symptoms might be. He loved puzzles. And in particular he loved those he could solve, and others not. He was sure, though, that November would never show up in his diagnostic department for an examination. He would never see this mysterious woman he had felt a weird connection with from the very first moment again. The days would pass by and his impressions would fade away.

And so it happened, Monday was followed by Tuesday. And Tuesday would be followed by Wednesday.

For days, November wandered around between dope, painkillers, sleeping, listening to music and brooding, but accepting that it was like this, she could not. Sometimes there was a small dose of heroin, too, at least then it was silent inside her and it was a relief that it somehow did not matter that they probably would not cross paths again just like that and would not feel that support again. What did not matter, did not hurt anymore. She had only drunk enough during the last days to not get into trouble. What with this whole mêlée of feelings, she had almost completely stopped eating. As soon as the effects of the intoxication slowed down, though, it whispered again and again inside her, how soothing his closeness had been, and that she had lost everything she had been seeking for so long already. Like tiny devils, these thoughts dug their claws into her from within. I need to get out of here! she thought to herself. 3 days have passed since our encounter. So it has to be Wednesday today. Distraction will get rid of these devils, after all, and I will get some different thoughts! November made an effort to reconstruct those past days and hours, before she made her decision. On her PC, she played the album that meant so much to her. Her companion. Now, with the decision to go outside, he gave her also security and was something familiar she could find some kind of comfort in at least. And so, as if remote-controlled, she packed a rucksack with two sweaters and two sweatpants, plus underwear and several t-shirts and the album that meant so much to her. After all, she had declared it her medevac – that meant it was not only with her in form of the pendant but also in its very original form, directly. The last remnants of weed, she stowed away in her rucksack as well. She turned off the music and shut down the PC. For she would take the last bit of heroin she still had left now, in peace and quiet. Of this, her companion did not have to and should not know. If she took it now, in a random inspection they would only find the weed in her bags. Besides, with that stuff in her blood she felt somewhat protected from an influx of too many stimuli. About one day had passed since the last shot. Her body did not complain. After all, she had never taken extreme amounts and constantly topped up with THC or painkillers.

She celebrated this shot, as it meant so much for her: food for the starved soul, numbing for the mind, the last escape route and according to her dealer also a particularly surprising thrill. Everything was prepared, in front of her on the table. It was the last fix before something would change, as much she could sense; only where it would take her, she did not know. Neither how long it would take. And all through these last three days and this one moment pointing the way, Johnny Cash's cover version of "Hurt" was wafting, over and over:

watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

[...]

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

[...]

I would find a way

Thankfully, it still was a while till semester break would be over. Her studies and her exams were not at stake. Again and again, in such situations such questions and thoughts about her very immediate future raised their heads, which could affect her in the here and now and always made her see clearly that her life was important to her. However, it bothered her that she always lacked the last tiny bit of consequence to fight it, especially in moments like these, and that the enjoyment of the moment was destroyed by such thwarting thoughts, even then causing a bad conscience, gnawing, decently torturing.

Her dealer had praised this H as something special, told her she should keep it for a special occasion. So you are going to be my compass, November thought with a smile on her face, as she poured the white-brownish powder on the spoon. "Welcome home," she said quietly, as she dripped ascorbic acid on the powder, and shortly after, the typical sound of a lighter filled the room with warmth and broke the silence. The heat joined powder and acid to a brown-yellowish liquid. November drew it up into the syringe. Her lips displayed the smile of a false hope and her eyes looked at a captivating freedom. November knew that all this was not truthful, yet she blocked out the truth. As for her, at least for the next hours, all the torment inside herself was defeated and, in addition to that, she had a plan to follow as of now. She tied her right arm and shot up. "Have a good trip," she whispered and did not even really know if she meant herself or the dope in her bloodstream. She paused for a few moments before she untied the ribbon from her arm, set it on the table with syringe, spoon and sachet and the rest. Up to now everything was as usual. Pleasant, warm, quiet, relaxed. Enjoy the surprise, her dealer had said to her.

She wore an asphalt-gray t-shirt. It was printed with a yellow skull in the center, a blue snake wriggling around it. A dark blue hoodie over it, zippered up half the way, so the motif on the shirt and her pendant were visible. This time, she had put on gray cargo pants. She loved these big, wide pockets on either side, as they were incredibly handy for her. You could take a lot without having to carry anything extra, which might throw you off balance, or would engage your hands, which she needed often to keep her balance when walking. In her left pocket, she always kept her utensils for the next shot handy. You never knew where you would end up, after all, so she wanted to be prepared. She reached into her rucksack and repacked the grass into the pocket of her pants as well. Better safe than sorry, she thought to herself. The same was true for her companion, the album. That was another reason she loved these roomy pockets. The right one still was empty. So, there the album went. Like this, she always carried it close to herself and would always have it handy too, in the case she fell. Apart from that it was comforting to feel something that important so close and tangibly. Before she went outside with her wheelchair, she patted down both pockets as a last check. November breathed a sigh of relief. Everything where it belonged.

The weather was pleasant. It was not raining, so she stayed dry at least; if she already felt that crappy and was on the road with the wheelie, she did not want to look like a drowned rat on top of that. Content, November briefly glanced at the sky. She felt comfortable in her high, still everything was as usual. She let herself drift, without asking herself if she actually deserved this here, or should do something completely different – attend to any duties, for instance. It did not matter. And the pain, because of the lost connection and because it probably had been her one and only encounter with this, for her inner balance that important, person, was gone for now. And it did her good to get out of that, after she had buried herself in it for so many hours – and even without a bad conscience. She did not know why, but she took the next bus. Smiling, she sat there and enjoyed the ride. Where will you take me? she asked herself, turning her thoughts to the heroin, which just now was searching for the way into her mind. She gazed out of the window. The city rushed by, she could not recognize anything, did not really know where she was just now. But it was not important anymore by now. She was enjoying the ride.

The pleasant journey though was to become a horror trip. November began to sweat, to tremble, felt pain all throughout her body. This is supposed to be the surprise? flashed through her mind. What did that shithead push me?! Her forehead leaned against the seat in front of her and her eyes closed, she tried to somehow endure the situation. In the meantime, her breathing was irregular, her skin slowly lost color. Neither conscious breathing nor any other tries to remedy the situation brought relief. Desperately, her right hand cupped the pocket of her cargo pants. She breathed a sigh of relief – her companion still was there, that was something, at least. The pain in her body was almost too much to suffer. It felt as if evil in person creeped right out of her bones and heavily sat on her shoulders now in form of grim mean creatures, clawed into her shoulder blades and constantly laughing sardonically. Loud. Right into her ears. Conversations, cellphones ringing, the bus itself – all and any sounds and conversations amalgamated into an unpleasant lump of not identifiable whimpers and dull sounds. Only the laughter of the creatures hung in the air above it all, clearly audible, with a mean echo.

She glanced over her shoulders. The passengers had not panicked, probably thought November was sleeping. Apparently only she saw these meanies on her shoulders. Red and blue they were. What kind of lousy trip is that, where shall this go? November asked herself. And from her shoulders a whispered reply resounded: Lord Voldemort! they murmured. November was startled and looked around, as far as she could. But there was nobody on the bus resembling him. She slouched again. Incessantly, she heard his name resound in her ears. She would not be able to keep it up here much longer, the pain did not subside either. The next stop thankfully was in sight already. Outta here! it pounded inside her head. And so she got off and stood right in front of the PPTH. A tormented smile darted across her face. Something special, I see. This was supposed to be the surprise? What a weird kinda compass and why the hell attached to so much pain? she thought to herself when she saw where she had ended up. She rolled to the next lamp post to use it to get out of the wheelie. At least the pain in her abdomen abated a bit for a moment, which let her breathe with more ease. Her arms hang off her like rubber. Lord Voldemort! it hissed from both her shoulders at once. November held onto the handles of her wheelchair, rubbed her sweaty and weary, ashen face and started to move. Her knees were weak, but she gained ground, somehow. To sit down again now would take too much strength.

Trembling, sweating, chaos in her head, and even more confusion brought about by all the noisy people around her in the lobby of the hospital. The volume and the bright light were unbearable. With narrowed eyes, she sneaked around, virtually blind and aimless.

A man in a white coat, apparently a doctor, who immediately was alarmed by November's condition, approached her with quick steps. It was Wilson! But neither he nor November at that moment had the ability to recognize the other. Wilson's recollection of Sunday night was almost wiped out, and even if he had tried, he would not have found access to his memory because his whole focus was now on a woman who needed urgent help. November did not recognize Wilson either, as she was far too busy trying to steady her legs to recognize or understand anything at all. The light stung in her eyes. Nausea rose slowly but surely in her. And from her shoulders still it hissed incessantly, Voldemort!

Wilson had hardly reached November as he already addressed her: "Hello? Can you tell me your name?" A hand on November's arm, he feverishly tried to make eye-contact and kept talking to her insistently: "I am a doctor. Please" – he pointed to her wheelchair – sit down for now. Somebody will take care of you in a moment."

Wilson's many words remained just an incomprehensible, distorted gibberish for November, and her answer was virtually whispered into her ear by the little devils on her shoulder: "I do not want somebody! I want to see Lord Voldemort !"

Wilson stopped short. Had the woman in front of him really just asked for a fictional character from the Harry Potter series? And for the villain, at that? He looked around and saw Cuddy standing a few yards away at the reception. "Cuddy!" He shouted, giving her a meaningful glance. Tossing a last sentence to the woman at the counter, Cuddy approached the two of them.

"What's up?" she asked, surprised, and at once got an answer from a glance at November.

Wilson expertly added: "Disorientation, dizziness, and" - he paused briefly - "hallucinations."

Cuddy took on the mysterious issue. She squatted to be eye to eye with November, put her hand on her shoulder and asked empathetically, softly, "How do you feel?" In the meantime, Novembers' senses had become somewhat accustomed to the environment, so that she understood Cuddy's question and could answer: "Look at my T-shirt, I couldn´t explain it any better," November answered weakly. Voldemort! the creatures hissed again into her ears impatiently. "Voldemort," November started again. "Just bring me to him," she said exhaustedly.

Cuddy's irritated gaze wandered to Wilson, who shrugged helplessly and returned Cuddy's questioning look.

"Alright," Cuddy said curtly, giving further instructions: "Get two nurses and a stretcher. We cannot take care of the woman here in the foyer, can we."

Wilson nodded hastily and disappeared. Cuddy began to examine November's pupil reaction, not a good idea - at least from November's point of view. What she had successfully suppressed with Wilson up to then could no longer be stopped in stimulus of the direct light, and November's sparse liquid supply made its way back out and just onto Cuddy's heeled shoes. Horrified, Cuddy stared at her expensive shoes. Two nurses rushed in from the background with a wheeled stretcher. She instructed the nurses to take care of the woman and move her to the ward.

Afterwards, Cuddy stamped off angrily, in the direction of House's office. Enough of this! What was this egotistical ass actually thinking, tricking her in such a lousy way? Was this supposed to be the revenge for having recently given him a full day of clinic duty? Which, of course, he had not liked at all and had tried to haggle, but this time she had remained stubborn and had not allowed herself to compromise. She simply had no mind for this perpetual and childish back and forth. House had been hinting at coming up with something time and time again since. This bastard, sending people here pretending to be patients to get one over on her! Crapping up my shoes could have only come from him, and these ridiculous hallucinations on top of it. Who was hallucinating about characters from a Harry Potter novel even? Cuddy thought, rolling her eyes irritatedly.

November resisted the "repositioning" onto the stretcher. "What do you want, damn it, I'm done vomiting, I'm much better again already!" With her hands, she resisted the grip of the nurses, even a little astonished herself that she was still able to do so. Thanks to her spasm, Novembers body was so stiff and immovable that the nurses would not have been able to move her anywhere anyway, so they gave up their trial with the stretcher and "only" kept an eye on November until a doctor would take care of her.

In the meantime, Wilson, having sent nurses and carrier to the lobby, had rushed to the office of House with a mixture of joyous excitement and excessive zeal. Now he stood in front of his friend's desk, not without a certain pride in having discovered something very interesting to House. "You won´t believe who's waiting for you downstairs in the lobby," Wilson said with utter conviction, looking at House.

His right eyebrow barely noticeably raised, House looked up from his screen and commented with a sharp tongue: "Half a dozen naked Brazilian samba dancers?"

Wilson dropped his shoulders and rolled his eyes a little. "No," he replied with a sigh, then continued excitedly, "Your next case is waiting for you downstairs! A veritable medical puzzle! And, if you ask me, a real challenge."

With a serious look and slightly furrowed brow, House looked up to Wilson, "What do you mean by that?"

Wilson silently rejoiced that he had engaged his friend's attention. "Downstairs, a young woman is sitting in a wheelchair, she is disorientated, she complains of dizziness and nausea, pain, seems unusually cramped and is hallucinating, as well," he said in a weighty tone. He paused for a moment to observe the effect his words had on House, before he continued: "You'll never guess who she asked me about! She said she wants to see- "

At this very moment, Cuddy pushed her way through the door, noisily and snorting with rage. "HOUSE!" she barked at him and did not recognize Wilson at first. "Are you out of your mind now? What are you even thinking, allowing yourself such a macabre joke?" Her voice quivered with anger, "Look at my shoes!"

House glanced over the edge of his desk before commenting soberly, "Looks like someone puked on it."

Cuddy was just about to explode and managed, through pursed lips, "Yeah, right. Brilliant deduction! "

House remained calm and added cynically, "A shame about the shoes, but green never looked good on you anyway." Cuddy turned red as a beet in the face and glared at House with a gloomy expression and narrowed eyes. The diagnostician, however, remained unperturbed, he did not know what Cuddy really wanted from him for one thing, and for another he had fun irritating her further. "Be careful," he said casually, nodding in the direction of her feet, "that you won´t foul up the carpet."

"WHAT?" cried Cuddy angrily, her patience was exhausted, "I'm supposed to look out for your damn carpet?"

Meanwhile, November was still sitting downstairs in the entrance hall, tightly holding on to the hand rim of her wheelchair with her right hand. On the one hand, to be able to sit at all, and on the other hand, to be safe, in case someone wanted to drag her somewhere again, because something inside her insisted on staying right here, no matter how she felt. November smiled weakly. So there it is again. My old survival instinct ..." she thought, while she waited for something to happen finally, still pale, trembling and in pain. At that moment, she was determined to endure this, and with her left hand she enclosed her pendant. She tried to focus on her breath and to breathe regularly, but she did not succeed because of the pain. Again and again, her face contorted with the pain and she felt her body tremble as the pain found its way again.

"House, you're impossible!" Cuddy snorted in an aggressive tone and so loud that one could probably hear it through the closed door at the end of the hall. She continued energetically and still very loudly: "That you do not want to do clinic duty - well! But to get someone to puke on my shoes out of revenge is definitely going too far! "

Unexpectedly, Wilson interfered in the dispute, which, strictly speaking was just a lecture by Cuddy, as House had been sitting in his chair, relaxed, and listening to her sermon in amusement.

"Hey, hey," Wilson began, raising his hands for a restraining gesture, "I think we all should calm down a bit now, okay?"

It was only now that Cuddy noticed the presence of Wilson. "What then are you doing here, Wilson?"

A bit ashamed, Wilson turned his eyes away from his boss and looked over to House. "I was just going to tell House that the woman downstairs in the lobby would be in good hands in his diagnostic department."

"What?" Cuddy said again with horror, "You do not believe everything is just acting?"

Wilson's embarrassment grew from second to second and he was more than struggling to openly state his conviction. "To be honest – no," he said, quite subdued.

Cuddy cursed and stamped her foot: "You can't be serious!"

Gradually, House had enough of it, what had begun as a funny appearance by Cuddy, now developed more and more into a nervous strain which he had no interest in at all. If Wilson and Cuddy wanted to argue at such a volume, then they should kindly do this outside his office. "And what is so interesting about this woman now, except that she puked all over Cuddy's shoes?"

Cuddy and Wilson replied in unison, which made House flinch a bit, "SHE WANTS TO SEE LORD VOLDEMORT!"

For a short moment, there was silence, then Wilson spoke up, "This is something for you, isn´t it?" Questioningly, he looked at House. "A woman, hallucinating about a fantasy novel!"

Cuddy shook her head. "Voldemort!" she said contemptuously, giving Wilson a deprecating stare, "Such a drivel can only be your brainchild, House!" Cuddy's words reached House only as a dull noise. Could this really be true? A woman in a wheelchair looking for Voldemort? He reached for his cane and at once his own words flashed through his mind again: " Purchased last week at Ollivander's …" If she was down in the entrance hall indeed, he wanted to know what was going on with her. She had not made the impression of being seriously ill at their encounter three days ago! Without a word, House stood up and walked to the door.

"Hey," Wilson called, surprised. "Where are you going?"

"See the patient!" House grumbled and walked on without missing a beat.

Wilson and Cuddy followed.

Together with his boss and his friend, House stood in the elevator, which was just driving down, and to his surprise clearly felt a throbbing in his chest. His pulse was increased. Was that the uncertainty because he did not know what to expect? Or was it the anticipation because he expected something specific? There was no time left for an answer, as at that moment the doors opened, allowing a view of the lobby.

Wilson pushed past him and went ahead, House limped after him, and Cuddy followed the two disdainfully. If House had not known any better, he would have thought his heart had stopped for a few seconds. Behind the reception desk, next to one of the grouped seats, stood a wheelchair, the spokes embellished with an airbrush drawing of a guitar and a tree. The person sitting in it had turned his back to him, but the blond short hair left only one conclusion - it was November! House thought he was dreaming and slowly walked around the wheelie.

All of a sudden, November's mind was wide awake, and the whispering disappeared. HE stood in front of her. She could hardly believe it, but it was certainly not an effect from her recent fix. She could feel too clearly that it was his charisma for it to have been that. She smiled exhaustedly, but relieved, breathing consciously. Now at the latest there was no longer any doubt. It was him. As if with that breath of air everything she had missed so painfully in the last few days was there again. November struggled for sovereignty, straightened once more to look him in the eye, and, with a demanding gesture, pointed her trembling index finger at him and said, "Expecto Patronum!" As if under a spell, House stared at November, knowing exactly what she meant with it, yet nothing else than a gentle: "I'm not your stag," passed his lips.

With this sentence, Cuddy and also Wilson, both standing on his side, dumbfounded, lost the last bit of their countenance. Had the two of them gone crazy now? This confused young woman in her wheelchair and Doctor House too? Voldemort, Patronus spell, House not a stag – the hell? And, especially in Cuddy's head, a whole other question arose, What the hell with this tone? House was not in the habit of talking to anyone like that! Not even to patients! Did this mean he knew the woman?

"Come on now! Don´t be like that," November began with noticeable disappointment in her voice, which gave away that she did not seem to be pleased with House's reply. "This is a metaphor, it means something like 'Give me my dope!'; as Lord Voldemort, you really should know that." And she continued, "And before my brain goes into standby mode, if you would!" All of this, she explained with last strength, but very focused, then the pain seized her again. Her stomach, her back, her legs. It was no longer possible to distinguish where it hurt, everything pulsated with pain inside of her. She seemed to lose any sense of awareness of her body. Bent forwards and tense, November wrapped both arms around her stomach and moved her torso slightly up and down in rocking movements.

Completely motionless, the three doctors stood around the confused woman in the wheelchair. Cuddy was the first to find her voice again, and she said, "House, could you please end this circus show here now!" Sarcastically, she added, "We've all laughed really hard, but we've had enough now!"

He heard Cuddy's words, however, he did not think it necessary to turn to her. House's gaze still was fixed on November. She slumped in her wheelchair like a limp dishrag, obviously was in severe pain and held both arms tightly against her body. She trembled, cold sweat stood on her forehead, her breathing was rugged and irregular. Besides, she had asked him for dope!? Could her condition possibly be attributed to the side effects of any drugs? And why did such a young and pretty woman take drugs in the first place? After all, she did not look like one of these homeless junkies in the streets? Nothing of their first encounter could have made him think that November had anything to do with drugs ... The thoughts in House's head danced like wild ballet pupils as he stared at her incessantly and found more questions than answers.

Curious of what would happen next, Wilson's eyes wandered between House and the woman in her wheelchair. And what he noticed at that paralyzed him with fear for a short moment – they both wore the same t-shirt! Or at least shirts with a similar motif! On the fabric of both, there were the lines of a skull, something wriggling around it. As on House's asphalt gray shirt as well, there was a gold print. In the center, to the left, a skull with birds and blossoms outlined around it. The whole right side was occupied by half of an eagle respectively dragon-like animal. Although skull and animal were not joined, looking at them made one feel they belonged together. Cuddy's voice dissipated Wilson´s rigor. "House!" she repeated indignantly, "If you could comment on this, now, please!"

"The patient will be taken to the diagnostic department. I am going to treat her," House said with clear and calm voice, his eyes still captured by November.

"What?" Cuddy cried, astonishment written all over her face, "Are you serious?"

„Yes!" House replied, single-minded, and finally took his eyes off November.

Amidst all this pain, November felt again and again the long and intense gaze of House, fixed upon her, staying with her, not disappearing. Letting her know she was still there, still conscious. To feel this gaze, at this moment, was her connection to reality. She felt the need to stretch her hand toward him, to be really sure of this connection, but she could not. It stayed an image, a notion in her imagination. Her hands were still pressed against her stomach and her body still moved up and down. Only her fingers indicated this movement for a moment.

With a firm gaze, House fixed Cuddy, who seemed to have enough finally now. At the end of her tether, she threw her hands up into the air and said, "Do what you want, for all I care!" She gave a last angry snort, turned around and stalked off in her heels.

"Pin sharp finish!" Wilson commented, rather untypically, watching Cuddy leave. House nodded and then instructed the nurses to move November to a patient room, before he made his way back to his office.