mágoa ( ✓ )

chapter eleven

THEY SAT TOGETHER along the banks of the Black Lake, silently enjoying one another's company. Overhead, fluffy, white clouds moved slowly across the blue sky. Then, he cleared his throat and met her dark eyes. "You have to tell him."

Pansy shook her head. Though they hadn't said anything, both couldn't help but think of the previous day, and Draco's sudden outburst in the common room. Deep down, she knew it wasn't fair to him: knew it wasn't fair that this boy was supposedly her best friend ( so much a best friend that she couldn't imagine marrying him ), and yet she couldn't tell him. "No, Blaise. You know I can't." 

"You told me."

"It's different with you. I was supposed to marry Draco, and if he knew— just imagine the horrible things that could happen, Blaise, because I can promise you it'd be horrible." The short-haired girl continued to shake her head, all sad eyes and even sadder facial expressions.

"You don't know that though," the dark-skinned boy tried to reason. "He may surprise you. He may prove to be the most supportive of us all."

She gave him a pointed look. "Did you not see the look in his eyes when I mentioned that Third Year being gay? It was almost like he'd mentally sided with the Sixth Year. He's impossibly traditional, Blaise: perhaps even more traditional than the rest of us. In his eyes, homosexuals are as good as dead."

"That's not true!" Blaise argued.

"What's not true?"

The two had hoped to have privacy along the Black Lake, but of course that wouldn't be the case. They turned around to find the green eyes of Harry Potter staring at them, his dark hair even more frazzled than usual.

"What're you doing here, Potter?" Blaise asked defensively, moving as if to stand up and grab his wand. Harry only held his hands up in a peaceful gesture, his gaze focusing on Pansy.

"It's Hermione. She's sick." Silent words passed between the Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Pansy stood quickly. She turned to Blaise for a moment, taking his hand warmly in her own.

"We'll finish this discussion soon, Blaise. I'm sorry." And then, she walked off with the green-eyed Gryffindor towards the Hospital Wing.

————— ↯ —————

In a more secluded section of the Hospital Wing, Hermione Granger laid amongst a bunch of fluffy, white pillows. Her head pounded terribly, and the potions she was given weren't doing much to help. Beside her, Ronald Weasley sat with all of his freckles and vibrant red hair: a worried look in his blue eyes. "Hermione," he began.

"Please, Ron..." she trailed. "Please don't."

He sighed, reaching forward and grabbing her hand. His eyes met her brown ones, sincerity in them. She shuddered at the touch of his fingertips against her heated skin. For the first time, she found herself speechless.

"I don't want to fight anymore." He whispered. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. For everything."

She couldn't speak: her eyes were locked on his. Her body was as stiff as a statue, though clammy. Her brain felt like mashed pulp, her gaze distant. She squeezed his hand to show that she'd heard him speak. He smiled, leaning forward to push a strand of her brown hair behind her ears. Her dark skin was tinted a slight pink.

"Get some sleep." He whispered, and her eyes fell closed heavily. She didn't feel him let go of her hand, didn't even hear him leave the Hospital Wing for his afternoon classes. Feverish dreams she failed to remember plagued her thoughts, and she was thrashing wildly against her sheets; they now felt more like ropes tied tightly around her body – Devil's snare, perhaps.