Feb. 7th, 2005

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She was back in the armchair. Watching him.

Bernard hadn't responded when she'd tried to wake him, that morning. For a moment she panicked, afraid that something unthinkable had happened; then, she checked his pulse and breathing and realized that his mind had simply locked down against the nightmares.

Maybe it's better that way, for the time being, she pondered, gazing at his prone form lying in their bed. His pale, freckled hands clenched in the covers, and she suddenly felt the same fear and uncertainty gripping her heart that had been present for every moment of his coma in November.

But there was the meadow, in London Below, and she knew Tom had been taking people there all day. She'd gone herself, willing hope into every bead of that silvery memory thread as she spelled it into the magical sphere.

There was hope. If not...then there was nothing.

So she sipped her tea, and ignored the book that sat open on her lap, and watched him.

She was really starting to hate that chair.

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clumsy_auror

October 2007

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