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.
