SWNOVELXO Chapter 5: Cost of Clarity
The hospital stay stretched on for several more days, though the doctors couldn't seem to agree why. Technically, she was fine. Heart rate normal. No burns. No neurological damage detected so far. She was completely coherent, with no issues in her mental faculties. Just a bit dehydrated. And this was what had them so concerned and baffled the most.
After all, being struck by lightning wasn't something even the most resilient person could just shrug off. She later got to know she didn't even get the Lichtenberg marks – the cool tree like patterns people often get when struck by lightning. Not even burns. Though her clothes had been singed.
It didn't really concern her. She had much bigger things to worry about. And as long as she was fine, it was nothing to worry about. Still, she played her part well. Observant of their procedures, cooperative to their tests. She gave them compliance, and in return she got her release.
By the fifth day, she was home again
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Her room was exactly as it had been left – a small corner of the world populated by books of all kinds of disciplines, a queen size bed with blankets still where they had been left. And curiously, even a stuffed koala, which was almost double her size.
She sat back on the bed, pulling the koala into her, nuzzling into its soft fur. She still remembered about it. Of all the things she had ever asked for – which hadn't ever been much other than books – the koala had been the first. She'd seen it once in a store window, months ago, nestled between rows of plush animals meant for children younger than her, and something about it had made her stop in her tracks.
Her parents had noticed. "Would you like it?" her mother had asked gently.
Hermione had hesitated, but then nodded.
She hadn't really understood why at the time. But now… now it made sense.
Her mind – sharpened now with the clarity of the previous life, pulled the answer together in moments. It was certainly a useful thing – to be able to analyse things swiftly, mechanically. Able to connect seemingly unrelated dots and get the answer. After the memories had resurfaced, her way of thinking from the previous life had begun to bleed through – faster thinking, deeper insights, better reasoning.
Useful? Absolutely. But not without cost.
Emotions came dulled now. Distant. Like watching someone else feel them from behind glass. It wasn't new – he had lived with that for years. But now? In this body, in this life, the detachment remained, yet felt slightly softer around the edges. The buffer wasn't gone, but thinner.
She took that as a good sign.
Not that it mattered much.
If it got better, great. If not... well, it's a part of me now. Always has been.
She didn't dwell on it. He didn't. Well, not really. He certainly had thought about it, theorised it was related to psychological effects of being one with the mask, with the brain having being conditioned for so long it became wired that way. Neuroplasticity, it was called.
Whatever, there were things in life that couldn't be changed, only worked around. This was one of them.
Then she blinked, suddenly realizing she'd gone off-track – again. Like he used to.
Right. The koala.
Why?
Oh yes. She hadn't understood it why she wanted it earlier, but with the memories of the previous life surfacing back, she had the reference to answer.
In her previous life, he had been... lonely.
Not tragically, not theatrically – just quietly, enduringly alone. Years of building walls, of numbing himself to disappointment, of mistaking detachment for strength. And somewhere along the way – perhaps during university – when he saw couples, he had started to notice the way they touched. Hugs, hand-holding, late night walks with people you liked. The gentle weight of someone resting their head on a shoulder.
He had never had that.
And though he told himself it didn't matter, though he laughed it off as hormonal tricks and social conditioning, that he didn't need it. The ache still lingered. But somewhere along the way, he had started sleeping with a pillow pulled into his chest. Something to hold. Something that didn't pull away.
That habit, it seemed, had followed him into this new life too.
A wry smile tugged at her lips.
It wasn't about the toy. It was about what it represented. A yearning. A softness he had denied, and she now quietly accepted.
No need to overthink it. It helped. That was enough.
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She still had two weeks of leave from school. Time to rest, the doctors had said. "You've been through a traumatic shock, Hermione. It's best not to push yourself too fast."
Not that she'd argue. The time was welcome.
What wasn't, however, was how overbearing her parents had become in the interim. Understandable, yes—she'd nearly died—but still. They fussed constantly. Every hour brought a check-in. Did she need anything? Was she feeling dizzy? Hungry? Cold?
Her mother wouldn't let her climb stairs alone. Her father kept hovering with snacks and thermometers. Even bedtime had turned into a production—nightlight or no, door open or closed, should they check in every few hours?
It was sweet. But smothering.
She loved them. And she appreciated their concern, could understand it, really.
They had raised her with warmth and laughter and firm expectations. And in this life, they had been her whole world. At least… this version of her.
Which was still a strange thought. That she had another set of parents. In another life.
Sometimes it made her feel guilty. Like she was replacing them. One family for another. But then again, was she?
Her mind, ever the blend of both lives now—his calm analysis, her rooted empathy—sorted through it quickly.
No. She wasn't replacing anyone. Just… expanding.
A new life. New parents. New bonds.
Just because she loved the ones here didn't mean she stopped loving the ones from before. That grief, buried and blurred by the transition, still flickered at the edges. And now, for the first time since arriving here, she let herself wonder:
What happened to them?
Had he died back there? Just… disappeared? Were they still looking for him?
The thought made her throat tighten. They must be devastated. Confused. Grieving.
Suddenly, the words of the myseterious man on the train came back to her, realization struck her like lightning – well, without the painful part.
"I'll take care of them."
That's what he had said. And for the first time, she understood what he had meant.
He had meant his family.
It explained little. Raised far more questions than answers.
Who was he, really?
Why had he done this?
And why would he promise to take care of people he didn't know?
She didn't know. And she wouldn't find out now.
So she set those questions aside. For now.
She'd get her answers in time. She would make sure of that.
But until then, she had decided something.
No matter what happened in this life – however she lived it, whatever it became – she would try to go back. At least once. Just to see them. Let them know she was okay. To make sure they were okay.
That was all she could promise herself.
For now.
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