The Best Mistake

Chapter Seven | Theodore Nott and His Many Magical Quirks

As Hermione stared down at Draco Malfoy's shockingly pale back from the farthest corner of his hospital room in St. Mungo's, she felt rather ill.

To be fair, the gaping wound where his flesh and muscle tissue had melted from the bones in his shoulder could be written off as the cause for such a feeling.

Or, perhaps, the feeling could've come from the fact that she'd sliced a werewolf's hand off less than an hour ago, using a rather dark severing curse she'd come across years ago while researching horcruxes.

It could've also come from the memory of  that desperate, terrified gleam in Malfoy's thunderstorm eyes while he silently begged her not to leave him, and then there was the moment she watched him get hit with an unknown curse from Antonin Dolohov. The sheer panic from the sight still lingered at the back of her neck, sending the final fleeting tingles of adrenaline down her spine and through her limbs.

Hermione could not be sure why she felt so sick over the fact that Draco Malfoy was lying on a hospital bed in front of her while his best mate treated his cursed wound, and she did not like it.

She hated being unsure.

Tearing her eyes away from Malfoy's shoulder, she glanced around the surprisingly spacious room. She hated St. Mungo's—the cloying scent of the herbal healing salves and potions; the stark coldness of the white walls, floors, and bedding; the memories of that wretched feeling of helplessness as she sat at the bedside of hurt or dying loved ones. It was all too much.

This room wasn't so terrible, however, she supposed, not with the curtains drawn on the windows, allowing just enough morning light in to provide a bit of warmth, and the ridiculously plush seating. It was a hospital suite fit for the convalescence of the sole heir to the Malfoy fortune to be sure.

Hermione audibly scoffed at the thought of this preferential treatment.

"Is something the matter?" Theodore Nott asked as he hunched over Malfoy with a determined expression, his wand swirling over the cursed flesh, sweat beading under the curling chestnut hair that clung to his forehead in places.

"Oh, no, sorry. I was just thinking."

His brows rose, but he didn't reply. Muttering incantations, Theo wiped his neck then forehead with one white sleeve of his healer robes, pushing his damp hair to the side.

"It looks far worse than it is," he said, peeking up at her and summoning the jar of salve from the table beside him.

Hermione assessed the sweat-drenched healer with disbelief. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it. Would you like me to cast a cooling charm on you?"

"Hmm?" Theo brows scrunched together as he slathered the thick, chunky brown paste over the wound.

"You look a bit—warm."

His eyes lit with realization, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head.  "Oh, sorry. I forgot we don't exactly know each other well. A cooling charm won't work on this."

Tilting her head, Hermione stepped closer to the bed. "May I ask why not?"

"You may, but I need to dress this first." Theo summoned bandages and wound them around Malfoy's shoulder magically before turning to Hermione and meeting her eyes with a frown. "It'll take a few days to fully heal. We have to grow some of the skin and muscle back, but he'll be fine."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, the sickness in her stomach easing up a bit. "I'm glad to hear it—the department will be, as well, of course."

Theo nodded and dotted his brow again,