Restricted

Chapter 26. Temper

The last time Madeline had seen Hogwarts' Hospital, the wing had certainly been less hectic.

She'd followed after Jolie from the foothills of the pitch's stadium. The friends remained quiet when they'd trudged behind hoards of both Houses, the injured, and staff alike.

Madeline's steps slowed at the threshold of the wing, standing beneath the archway between the open double doors.

Light poured in from the iron lined trefoil windows, the storm clouds seeming to have long passed. As if her rain sodden cloak were the only memory of what drenched the grounds minutes ago.

Her stare glided over the rows of now occupied cots. The squeak of metal chairs against stone weaved through the slurry of indiscernible voices.

Her chest ached as she beheld the sight, as the players from both the Gryffindor and Slytherin team either sat, or hovered over those in the beds. The entirety of the room was divided completely in half. All of them, it seemed, were too busy tending to their own worries to take notice of their arrival.

Her vision momentarily blurred, as if she couldn't bring herself to distinguish a familiar face.

Amongst the stark and sterile linen sheets, the left side of the wing was crimson and marigold, and on the right, emerald.

Those same students in white aprons she'd carefully watched on the pitch bustled from bed to bed, nursing the injured. All of the training healers' faces were steeled in composure, each of them focusing intently on their respective patients

The worry Madeline held began to soften, only slightly, when she found that those in the cots were awake, talking and smiling, or arguing with the Madam Pomfrey—

Madeline narrowed her glance, discovering that it was George who was bickering with the matron. She vaguely recognised the older witch, being as it was her who'd once healed Madeline's scraped body the morning after she'd unkindly met the stone ground of a deserted corridor in her swimming costume.

Madam Pomfrey, again dressed in her same apron tied around her front and coordinating hat, looked to be entirely fed up with whatever it was she'd been attempting to force into George's hand. From the looks of it, a vial that must have contained that of a healing potion. 

At Madeline's side, she heard Jolie exhale a long sigh. And without as much as a glance or gesture to follow, she strode ahead.

Madeline's gaze trained at her friend's back, her blonde hair tinged darker and weighed down with rain, swishing with the haste of her steps and arms folded over her chest.

After the initial shock of the brawl itself wanned, Madeline noted the panic—the concern Jolie had kept contained for George, as if no soul or force would keep her from his bedside. Though now, seeing as he had returned to his usual self, she looked to be fuming with every stride.

Inwardly, Madeline wished him luck.

Unfortunately for her though, she found herself staring at the path ahead of Jolie. 

A few rows down and into the ornate hall, in the cot beside George, was Fred.

Her footing threatened to give out.

Fred laid with his back flat against the mattress as he stared vacantly above at the intricate stone ceiling and iron chandelier. His profile was blank, pale, and unreadable, almost as if he were still stunned.

No trace of a grin or taunt on his features, unlike that of his brother beside him. The twins seemed to be either sides of an opposing coin.

Lee lingered between the beds, and whatever it was his friend had been saying, either in greeting as Jolie neared, or anything that explained his concerned and pinched expression, Fred didn't look to be listening.