It was like entering a whole new world. There were rows and rows of beds, which were being filled at a ghastly rate, and between all the beds were long tables on which medical instruments had been placed. There were privacy screens around all the beds, but that didn't hide the sound of pained moaning and retching, or the scent of vomit and sweat, which hovered all around the room like a thick fog. Ron almost threw up, doubled over and breathing hard, but after a moment that feeling seemed to pass, so he stood back up and flashed Harry a weak thumbs up. They followed the name tags posted above the beds until they came to: "JACOBSON, RACHEL ALICE age: 15 gender: FEMALE house: GRYFFINDOR" Harry and Ron each grabbed a stool which had been placed against the wall and slowly walked behind the screen. Harry almost dropped his stool. The person laying on the bed was not his friend. "My G-d..." Ron whispered, nearly missing the stool when he sat down. Harry sank into his stool, feeling so heavy with shock disbelief that the stool almost fell over. "That isn't her." Harry said, slowly, unable to take it in. Ron looked at his friend. Why couldn't Harry grip reality? "Harry, it's Rachel." But even as he said the words he half didn't believe them. Sure, the name tag said Rachel, but any minute now, a happy brown haired American would come bouncing in to take them away from..from...from this thing, laying in a bed, face so pale it was like chalk, waxy skin stretched over its bones way too tight, breathing labored, eyes slightly open, yet not seeing, the white's a sickly yellow, and bloodshot. "Rachel?" He whispered. She let out a low moan. Ron reached out to touch her, but soon retracted his hand. Her skin seemed to be boiling. He half expected to see rising bubbles of blood forming under her skin, but knew that to be impossible. Right? "What? What's wrong?" Ron shook his head to clear his thoughts. "N-nothing." Then he thought better of his words. "She's just so....hot. Feverish. I dunno. It just freaks me out." "Let me see." Harry reached his hand out, and lightly touched Rachel's forehead. At that exact moment she let out a bloodcurdling scream. Harry pulled his hand away, but she continued to scream, a long, high pitched, unearthly scream that seemed to enter their brains and manifest itself in their consciousness. She wouldn't, or couldn't, stop screaming, and she never paused to take a breath. The scream didn't even seem to be coming from her, and the only clue that it did belong to her was the fact her mouth was open. Harry and Ron looked at each other for a moment before they ran from the room. Harry and Ron didn't go back to the infirmary, and they didn't tell Hermione about their brief trip there. Winter slipped away, Hermione kindling the Channukah lights in Rachel's place, chanting the prayers with an awful accent, stuttering and skipping over letters and words. She moped around all the time, didn't eat much, complaining that the death of her friend made her too sad to eat. Not to mention the fact that Rachel wasn't dead YET, but Hermione seemed to have given up hope. Even her schoolwork was starting to slip, if only a little.