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3*24*03 (Edited 4/2 for everything.)

Hello anyone kind enough to come this far! =D Every review is very much appreciated; its such great motivation to have people tell you you're actually doing fairly well!

My apologies for having this so short, but I don't want to switch settings without explanation, so I prefer to have each chapter set in a consistent place rather than fly all over the world in one poor little chapter. Thank you for the wonderful support and I'll have the next one up as soon as it's ready.

Chapter 4

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I honestly didn't mind the plane ride nearly as much as I intended to.

            However, I think Hermione not only minded the plane ride as much as I had intended to, but also actually despised it even more.

            Miss Granger had not been flying in quite a few years, as best to my knowledge, and the lack of flight had not benefited her in the least. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this until she was vomiting into a tiny paper bag. Spending far too many years of my life as a potions teacher, it didn't disgust me. However, I felt compelled to pull back her tangled mass of curls, as it wouldn't do any good to me to spend the entire trip to the states next to a woman with vomit in her hair.

            "Ugh." She leaned back in the hideous seat and closed her eyes.

            "Agreed," I assented as I studied her appearance. She was pale and not looking good at all. "Does…" I paused, "your kind," she shot me a weak but venomous look, "partake in potions of sort to deal with this type of thing?"

            " We do have medication," she spoke slowly, "but I didn't plan on this, so I didn't bring anything."

            "Mhmm…" It would not do to spend my entire flight next to an ill woman.

            We hadn't even taken off yet, for Circe's sake! I signaled to a servant-like person and gifted them with her bag. He wasn't pleased.

            I wondered if it was still possible to take our journey by sea. Unless of course, Hermione got seasick as well… The plane's beginning of  its take-off and the hyperventilating woman next to me distracted my thoughts. I leaned over to her, "Is this going to be a problem?"

            "No," she hissed, "I'm just having a bit of anxiety."

            "A bit indeed," I muttered.

            Her hands were folded in a bit of a death grip. I wondered if blood was making its way through.

            "Perhaps you ought to relax."

            "I am relaxed," she ground out.

            "Are you capable of separating your hands?"

            "Of course I am." And she demonstrated this skill by pushing my arm out of the way and clutching the armrests. I pondered if sudden change in elevation could result in one passing out. If so, I hoped I was the one who did so.

            I pushed her arm off the armrest and reclaimed it, only to have seemingly provoked a battle. All the while the plane began to speed along quite nicely. I noted this without much interest, yet it seemed to elude Hermione.

            Well, it had eluded her only long enough for me to think I had finally won the battle of ownership. But it was in that moment of glory, (or at least slight satisfaction,) that my victory was stolen and she not only knocked my arm off of it, but also grasped my hand as well with a slight squeak at the tilting of the plane upward.

            I marveled at the softness of the obviously steel gripping device attached to her arm. She was in such great fear and distress; Hermione didn't even realize whose hand she was clutching. We rose into the air without great disruption, even though it wasn't nearly as smooth as a broomstick ride, I found it preferable to the uncomfortable adventure riding a hippogriff always turned out to be.

            Her eyes were tightly shut and her grip on my hand was even tighter, despite our steady altitude as well as the comforting ding, which alerted us that we could unfasten our seatbelts and "move about the cabin." For a moment I pondered the mystery of how being controlled by a small seatbelt light seemed so similar to being controlled by Albus.

            However, the seatbelt light is far more logical.

            "Elizabeth," I uttered in her direction, "Elizabeth."

            She showed no sign of hearing me.

            "Elizabeth." A bit louder this time.

            Not a movement.

            "Hermione!" I hissed, squeezing her hand.

            Her eyes opened in a flash, "Elizabeth!" she corrected fiercely.

            Now why hadn't I thought of that?

            "Yes well, Elizabeth," I humoured her as much as I humour people, "would you please release your grip on my hand?"

            Her face flushed but remained hard as stone. "Of course."

            I don't enjoy touching or being touched by people at all, yet somehow it inexplicably wasn't exactly a relief to be "released" as I requested.

            I sighed, leaned back into my coach-erific seat and tried to fall asleep without another thought to my newfound tolerance of human contact.

            I did no such thing, but let's say I did.