The Sun and His Stars ; HP

The aftermath

I blink open my eyes, wincing at the harsh light piercing through my eyelids. The brightness is almost unbearable, flooding my vision from all angles. It's the kind of blinding radiance only found in the hospital wing, and that realization makes my heart skip a beat. Why am I here?

I furrow my brows, trying to focus as my vision remains hazy around the edges. The sterile white walls and the soft hum of magical machinery are unmistakable. I'm definitely in the hospital wing, but the memory of how I got here is foggy at best. My mind races, piecing together fragmented images of the classroom, the spell, and the crash.

Letting out a huff of frustration, I shift on the bed, trying to get comfortable, though it feels like my body is weighted down with lead. The blankets are too warm, and the bed beneath me is too soft—nothing like the hard surfaces I'm used to. As I attempt to turn onto my side, a groan to my right catches my attention. The sound is groggy and irritable, and it's enough to make me freeze.

With a jolt, I twist further, and my heart nearly stops when I come face-to-face with Harry Potter. My eyes widen in shock, and I have to blink several times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. His messy black hair is even more disheveled than usual, and his face is pale, though not from the usual bravado. He looks as disoriented as I feel, his green eyes slowly blinking open.

"What the fuck!" I yell, my voice cracking with both surprise and indignation. I shoot upright in the bed, my heart pounding in my chest. As I do, I become painfully aware of the fact that Harry Potter is attached to my arm, his hand resting on mine. It's like some sort of twisted joke that the universe is playing on me.

"Language, Ms. Malfoy," Snape's voice drawls from behind the curtains, his tone as icy as ever. My eyes dart around the room, trying to piece together the situation. The soft hum of magical equipment and the faint rustle of Madam Pomfrey's robes fill the space with an almost eerie calm. I blink rapidly, still disoriented, before focusing on where Potter's arm is stubbornly attached to mine.

I glance down, my gaze landing on the connection at my elbow where Potter's arm is inexplicably fused to mine. A surge of panic rises within me as I realize that not only are we connected, but we're also lying side by side. My heart skips a beat as I tug my arm toward myself, inadvertently pulling Potter closer. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks: two hospital beds have been pushed together to accommodate our unexpected predicament.

"Why am I attached to him?" I demand, my voice sharp and incredulous as I shout toward the curtain. I can't help the frustration in my tone, feeling the weight of the situation settle heavily on my shoulders. From my right, I hear Potter let out a humorless chuckle, his breath warm against my skin. I glare at him, my patience wearing thin, just as the curtain is drawn back with a dramatic swoosh.

Professor McGonagall steps into view, her stern expression softening into a look of professional concern. She gives a nod in our direction before summoning a chair with a flick of her wand. The chair glides gracefully through the air and lands neatly in front of our beds. She sits down with a dignified poise, crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands in her lap as she fixes us with a contemplative gaze.

"I'm glad you've both awoken," she begins, her voice soothing but carrying an undertone of gravity. I raise my eyebrows, silently urging her to get to the point. McGonagall lets out a soft sigh, her eyes shifting to the side as if weighing her words carefully.

"Madam Pomfrey has been running diagnostics since you arrived," she continues, her tone clipped and serious. "As of right now, we have two options for resolving this situation." She pauses, allowing the weight of her words to hang in the air. My heart races, and I grip Potter's arm with a mixture of anxiety and frustration.