A few years ago, Hermione had her first and last experience with people putting words into her mind- Voldemort's voice echoing in her head as she stood amongst the ruins of Hogwarts.
Somewhat understandably, then, it's not enjoyable for her to repeat the experience, even if this intrusion is nothing like its predecessor. She still cries out in surprise- not pain, it doesn't hurt, though for some reason she feels like it should and almost reacts as if it does- and her hand goes to her forehead, sweat prickling on her skin. For a moment, she mistakes the wave of need and desperation for her own emotions, and then the word help echoes in her skull and she realises what's happening. An SOS.
She can do this, she promises herself, isolating her own feelings from the invading ones and steeling herself. Of course she can do this.
Where is she going to?
The question actually only occurs to her when she's already started running. She thinks oh Merlin let this be right and reminds herself that mental communication is often limited by physical distance, especially when it's so primal and instinctive, that it is far more to do with the unconscious mind than the conscious, so she can't be far away and what's more, if she consciously tries to work out where it came from she won't have a hope in hell of working it out...
She wishes she could Apparate, and has heard testimonies of people who have been able to Apparate with only the barest scraps of information- place names and the like. Even people's name.
Hermione can't do that. Hermione does things by the book.
This time, her feet seem to know more than her mind does. Either that, or she's very, very lucky, and looking back on it later that's probably what she'll surmise with a prissy sniff and her eyebrows raised: lucky coincidence. Assuming she survives.
Now, though, that doesn't matter. It can't. She rounds the corner after only minutes, though she seems to take forever.
And oh, God, look at the blood.
"Merlin."
But she can't afford to be shocked anymore, not now. She just drops her bag, pulls out Dittany and decides it's not enough, pulls out a vial of something else- foul smelling, black, not a recipe from home but one she's willing to trust when there's nothing else. She all but ignores Wolfgang, saying to the man on the ground, "It's alright, I'm-" A witch who has read a lot of books, a decent potioneer who brewed this for the first time a week ago, a bookworm who was never meant to have to fight monsters, an overachiever hopelessly out of her depth but doing a good job of pretending, maybe good enough to save a few lives- yes, that's all that matters, not her bloody stupid insecurities. If she can save him, it will be enough. "-here to help. You'll have to drink this."
She puts the vial to his lips and addresses Wolfgang in a voice that sounds rigidly restrained- she's in control of herself, but it's very obvious that she needs to be, that there is hysteria and terror bubbling under the surface, held painfully tightly in check. "Keep the pressure on that, please. In a second, you'll, um, need to put the Dittany on it." It doesn't cross her mind to explain what Dittany is, but the bottle sails through the air towards him, its leisurely pace incongruous and- horribly- almost comical.
no subject
Somewhat understandably, then, it's not enjoyable for her to repeat the experience, even if this intrusion is nothing like its predecessor. She still cries out in surprise- not pain, it doesn't hurt, though for some reason she feels like it should and almost reacts as if it does- and her hand goes to her forehead, sweat prickling on her skin. For a moment, she mistakes the wave of need and desperation for her own emotions, and then the word help echoes in her skull and she realises what's happening. An SOS.
She can do this, she promises herself, isolating her own feelings from the invading ones and steeling herself. Of course she can do this.
Where is she going to?
The question actually only occurs to her when she's already started running. She thinks oh Merlin let this be right and reminds herself that mental communication is often limited by physical distance, especially when it's so primal and instinctive, that it is far more to do with the unconscious mind than the conscious, so she can't be far away and what's more, if she consciously tries to work out where it came from she won't have a hope in hell of working it out...
She wishes she could Apparate, and has heard testimonies of people who have been able to Apparate with only the barest scraps of information- place names and the like. Even people's name.
Hermione can't do that. Hermione does things by the book.
This time, her feet seem to know more than her mind does. Either that, or she's very, very lucky, and looking back on it later that's probably what she'll surmise with a prissy sniff and her eyebrows raised: lucky coincidence. Assuming she survives.
Now, though, that doesn't matter. It can't. She rounds the corner after only minutes, though she seems to take forever.
And oh, God, look at the blood.
"Merlin."
But she can't afford to be shocked anymore, not now. She just drops her bag, pulls out Dittany and decides it's not enough, pulls out a vial of something else- foul smelling, black, not a recipe from home but one she's willing to trust when there's nothing else. She all but ignores Wolfgang, saying to the man on the ground, "It's alright, I'm-" A witch who has read a lot of books, a decent potioneer who brewed this for the first time a week ago, a bookworm who was never meant to have to fight monsters, an overachiever hopelessly out of her depth but doing a good job of pretending, maybe good enough to save a few lives- yes, that's all that matters, not her bloody stupid insecurities. If she can save him, it will be enough. "-here to help. You'll have to drink this."
She puts the vial to his lips and addresses Wolfgang in a voice that sounds rigidly restrained- she's in control of herself, but it's very obvious that she needs to be, that there is hysteria and terror bubbling under the surface, held painfully tightly in check. "Keep the pressure on that, please. In a second, you'll, um, need to put the Dittany on it." It doesn't cross her mind to explain what Dittany is, but the bottle sails through the air towards him, its leisurely pace incongruous and- horribly- almost comical.