Peter was talking too quickly and Miriam was getting confused. She kept her eyes shut as his speech stream passed over her. He was saying something about feeling rotten and being careful. As he neared the end and began trailing off, she opened her eyes, shifting them around the room with particular caution.

"Hospital Wing," she mouthed silently, identifying the room without actually speaking the words audibly.

Miriam had had fantasies about such an experience. Sometimes, she'd imagine with a twisted fondness some dangerous, risky situation she would likely never find herself in. In her mind's eye, she was somewhere like the Forbidden Forest face to face with something like You-Know-Who himself. Never mind how she or he got there. It was unimportant.

In such fantasies, she'd try something -- to run, to fight, to defend herself -- but in the end, he'd overpower her. She would be wounded, maimed, or even die. And then, she'd be in Hogwarts, in the Hospital Wing, and everyone would be there -- well, anyone who mattered that is -- her favorite teachers, her best friends, her Hufflepuff family... sometimes even her worst enemies would make an appearance. And the only thing they all had in common was that they were supporting her. They were ashamed they'd let such an evil thing attack her, and they would be dedicated to her protection in the future. They would compliment her, sympathize with her, and assist her in her endeavours. She would be loved... and all because of her sufferings. But her sufferings wouldn't matter, because she would be loved.

"So what kinds of things do you actually like to do?" Peter asked with a smile.

Miriam could tell that this was not going to be like her fantasy. She looked behind Peter to reveal the empty hospital wing. Not a single person had come to her bedside, except for the third year.

Miriam leaned her head back on her pillow and looked at him with a confused facial expression. "I like not being attacked," Miriam said woefully, "and not being knocked out." She was practically moaning the words. As she spoke, she felt her real pain melt away the idealized fantasy. "I like it when my head doesn't hurt... and my muscles aren't stiff." She sighed and looked Peter in the eyes.

"I hurt," she whimpered, "and I don't like this."

Peter's facial expression made her feel bad though. She was clearly upsetting the poor boy. She just wanted his attention and affection. In her fantasies, now was when the visitors pledge their allegiance to her, their promise to protect her from harm. However, Miriam could tell Peter wouldn't do that. He would be crazy to and she was crazy to want it from him. They just met after all.

She sighed again. "I like Potions," she surrendered, looking down at the floor as she spoke, "and dances."


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