SEA, SWALLOW ME, remus lupin

aon deug, an untimely ultimatum

CHAPTER ELEVEN
an untimely ultimatum

                           𖦹 ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ˚⋆˚ 𖦹

  AS A GROAN SLIPS FROM COVE'S chapped lips, her first thought after waking up regards how desperately she needs a glass of water.

She blinks the sleep from her eyes, rubbing her scarred hands across her face to waken herself up. Her throat clicks in an agonising cry for help when she tries to vocalise her discomfort, the sheer dryness making her wince; it feels as though a sun-baked desert has made itself at home in her windpipe.

   Cove jerks into a sitting position quickly enough to give herself whiplash. Still half asleep, her hands make a mad scramble for her bedside, where she finds a glass awaiting her and doesn't waste any time in completely downing the contents. In hindsight, she probably should've checked to see what it was before guzzling it down in one go but hey ho — she's still alive, isn't she?

  Maybe not for long. The onslaught of water makes her choke and dissolve into an unpleasant coughing fit, her fist pounding pathetically at her chest to try and calm it down. Her eyes sting with unshed tears.

"Miss Henderson!" an appalled voice scolds. "Are you trying to drown yourself?"

It takes her a minute or two, but she finally steadies her breathing and makes a face, allowing for her eyes to fully adjust to her surroundings.  She clears her throat, rubbing at her chest to try and soothe the burning sensation. "Sorry, Madam Pomfrey. It just went the wrong way."

Tutting, the mediwitch tucks a stray curl behind her ear, those unfortunately familiar frown lines wrinkling her dark complexion. She mutters to herself as she potters about the hospital bed, Cove catching the words 'silly girl' and 'no self-preservation' amidst her frustrated ramblings.

   Rain patters against the window pane behind her head, the cold that radiates from the condensation helping to cool the burning of her nape. Now that awareness is seeping back into her, Cove realises that the back of her head feels excruciatingly bruised. There's a tray resting by her elbow littered with countless concoctions and remedies that she doesn't know enough about medicine to name, each of them strongly scented of herbs and... smelling salts? She also notices that surrounding beds are all totally vacant and neatly made up — it looks like she's been awarded the honour of Pomfrey's first patient of the year. Lucky her!

  She smoothes her fingertips over the cotton of her rumpled shirt and thumbs over the loose top buttons, noting how her robes and tie have been discarded on a nearby chair. A knot tenses between her brows, her face broken from sleep to be soured by a frown.

   "What—" her voice comes from between her lips shrouded in a static crackling that's almost entirely unintelligible. She clears her throat again. "What happened?"

  "Well, my dear, you fainted."

  Her lips purse. "Right. I sort of gathered."

  Madam Pomfrey shoots a withering glare at her for the remark and she shrinks back into her pillow. 

   "What I meant," Cove reiterates cautiously, "was, um, why did I faint in the first place?"

   At that, Pomfrey stills completely. She's not been quite so motionless in a long, long time — she doesn't know what to do with herself if she isn't preoccupying her scatterbrain with a dozen tasks at a time, whether it be doting over a sickly student or fiddling with her own fingers to keep herself moving. She sets down the mortar and pestle that was in her hands, discarding her semi-crushed vervain and for once in her life deciding to push her concoctions to the back of her mind. Now, she has other priorities.