𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬: A Scorose Story

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫 𝟎 𝟐

Fear. It protects us. Stimulates a vital survival instinct within us- fight or flight.

Her legs gave up. Wasn't sure of how many floors and stairs she had sprinted, stumbled, picked herself up from and sprinted again until her body could no longer handle it. And at some point, somewhere far, far away from Malfoy, she dropped. Collapsed; fell to the ground, panting— in one of the girls' lavatory, it seemed, judging by the marbled floors and row of sinks.

Her head is swooning. The room is swaying, the blurred and disoriented sinks and toilets swishing from side to side then back again. There's a furious ringing in her ears. Tears running down her flushed cheeks. And her gasps— desperate, quivering gasps for air because she can't breathe. She can't breathe, but she can. It's what she thinks drowning feels like.

Drowning. Seems like a better way to go than this. But at least it wasn't in his hands.

But the hot, sticky acid accumulating in her throat threatens its way out. She gags, hands flying over her mouth. Crawls—throws herself over the nearest toilet. The bile swims out, yellowish liquid spilling into the bowl with a disgusting retch. It smells foul, but fatigue forces her to slump over the bowl, her head rapidly spinning so fast she can't keep up.

Her curls, damp with sweat, fall into her line of vision, creating blurry red streaks against the egg-shell colored stall. She can only hear two things now: her own soft, uneven pants, and the very beating of her heart, thrusting her blood against the walls of her arteries and veins. Pounding, like rhythmic drums.

But other than those two, it's only silence that enfolds her. It comforts her—enough to allow herself to cave in to enervation; her eyelids slowly commence to rest. Her muscles relax. She sees black.

____________________

"No visitors."

"We're her cousin! Madam Pomfrey, please-"

"Brother, actually."

"Not now, Hugo."

She's in that half-awake half-asleep phase, she thinks. Has to be. When everything is still black because it's too tiring to open your eyes but your brain is already processing what sensory neurons pick up. Yeah, that.

She opens her eyes. Blinks once to clear up the blur. Twice, for good measure. Takes in the thin wall of curtains around her. The vague smell of chocolate and medicine. Remembers who had just been addressed— Madam Pomfrey, that is.

The Hospital Wing. Having known where she was, she focuses on what she can't see. Focuses on what she can hear.

The voices of her cousins—and brother—are faint, but not by distance. In fact, she can only presume that they're just behind the curtains. They're faint in the way that her brain deceives; makes them sound blurred. Hazy. Disoriented.

It makes her head ache. She wants them to shut up.

"I will not ask you boys and girls again. Take a seat and be quiet or leave."

"But-"

"No 'but's.' Miss. Weasley needs her rest, and you all will do well leaving her to it."

A series of groans and grumbles erupted among her visitors; and alongside them was muttered Malfoy's name.

It triggers something inside of her. Makes her heart pause for a mere second. And it all comes rushing back, hitting her like a tsunami— everything. It flashes in her head and in an instant, she is back in his arms. Screaming. Struggling. Crying. She feels his icy touch— it stings her skin. Smells spearmint and his distinct expensive cologne. Can't breathe.