Everyone's heard the saying that you don't find love; it finds you. In Love Emerson's case, love didn't just find her; it literally knocked her off her feet.
OR
ʜᴀʀʀʏ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ʙᴜᴛ ʟᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ.
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She was exhausted, drained, sapped, depleted in other words Love was miserable and she was sure she looked like it. Her face was haggard and dull, her eyes red and watery, the bags under her eyes dark and heavy, every muscle in her body aching at once. Shivering, her entire body was covered in goosebumps. The air around her felt heavy and thick, and her nose was stuffed with a thick, nasty glob of phlegm. Oh, how she had undervalued breathing. She was an absolute mess, a pitiful sight to behold.
Yes, Love was sick and Padma Patil was right.
Of course, Love feeling dead on her feet did not encourage much sympathy from Padma, however, after the expected 'I told you so' Love did receive a chocolate frog so that was nice.
Still, Love was stubborn and didn't want to go to the hospital wing believing it would go away in the days to come, that she only needed a paracetamol pill her mami insisted on packing her along with other muggle medicines for this same reason. Her friends thought, they were more sceptical that a pill would fix her, even Emma who is just as much part of the muggle world as she is thought a Pepper-Up potion would be better.
So, after taking Emma's advice and some light threats on Padma's part Love finally went to pay a visit to Madam Pomfrey on Sunday evening, who, of course, as soon as she saw Love's pitiful state urged her to a bed.
"I've been telling them time and time again to not let quidditch games go on when it's raining," Pomfrey complains as Love settles on the bed which, in her opinion, wasn't really necessary but she wasn't complaining about having to rest her feet for a while. "You are my eight sick students today and at least thirteen the in whole weekend."
"Sorry," Love mumbles sniffling, unashamedly using the end of her sweater's sleeve to wipe her nose.
Madam Pomfrey sighed passing the girl some tissues before placing a hand on her forehead, "None of that, Miss Emerson. It's not your fault, dear. Now, rest a bit as I go bring another patch of freshly brewed potions."
Love only hums while slumping down the oddly comfortable pillow and closing her eyes... it was almost peaceful even if she was breathing through her mouth because her nose was stuffed or the ever-aching head Love felt relaxed. Until she heard an annoyingly shrill noise of what she thinks is a song.
"Get well soon, get well soon I hope you recover, don't feel forlorn I'm sending you a little bit of joy from afar Get well soon, my dear, tha–"
"Oh, shut up!" A voice groaned before the song was cut short.
Love's eyes snapped open, and a soft frown made its way to her face, she knew this voice, right? Even her hazy mind found it familiar so who... Turning her head, Love spotted in between curtains, a blop of dark hair.
