Merry Christmas Mr. Malfoy (Book 1)

Chapter 15 : Malfoy's Don't Get Colds (Part 1)

Malfoy's Don't Get Colds

"Now hold still! You can't keep moving like that!"

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the bed, fidgeting, fighting the urge to pace back and forth as opposed to letting Madame Pomfrey tend to him. His ankle hurt, yes, and he was cold, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil he was currently experiencing.

Her body had felt so light in his arms, so unbelievably cold, and he swore that he could barely hear her breathe. McGonagall had pointed out that the wind might have drowned out said sound, but his anxieties told him otherwise.

Fear gripped his heart in a frigid grasp, tightening its hold around him until he felt ready to explode. He couldn't just lie down and relax while Hermione lay motionless in the bed next to him. Her face was pale, colour gradually returning to her cheeks as Slughorn gently poured a potion into her mouth.

Madame Pomfrey had said that she would be fine; she was exhausted, low on energy, and just needed some time to warm up and recuperate. He, on the other hand, would be limping for a couple of days and would most likely get a cold.

He didn't give a damn about limping or colds; he just wanted to make sure that Hermione was all right.

Damn it, he should have gone with her! He shouldn't have let her go out alone! He should have stood by her, held her, and kept her warm during the whole walk. But no, he just had to go towards Hogsmeade, just had to listen to everyone but his gut instinct.

He had been regretting his decision from the second he saw her stumbling in the snow.

He cared about her, god damn it, had told her that, and instead of showing it, he had let her go off alone as though he didn't give a damn.

"Mr. Malfoy! Stop your fidgeting this instance! If you expect me to heal your ankle properly, you must stop moving!" Madame Pomfrey snapped for the tenth time.

"I need to know if she'll be okay!" Draco spat back, eyes glaring furiously at the Mediwitch in front of him.

Sighing, the older woman continued to tend to his ankle, must to his annoyance. "She will be fine. I already explained this to you, she is just…"

He tuned her out; she had repeated the same thing four times already and he knew the words by heart. He turned his gaze back to the young woman lying on the bed, hair gathered up to prevent the sheets from getting soaked, looking frail and small covered in the stark whiteness of the sheets.

He just wanted to go over there and hold her hand, to pull her into his embrace and keep her warm and safe.

His gaze left her for a second, looking across the room to where Slughorn now fed Dennis a potion. The boy was paler than Hermione, looking even more fragile in the bed. His lips were blue, but the rattling breath escaping them let everyone know that he was still alive and fighting.

"Mr. Creevey will be fine, as well," Madame Pomfrey said, noticing the direction of Draco's burning gaze. "He just needs rest, like Miss Granger. It is lucky she found him when she did; ten more minutes out there without warmth, and he would not have made it." She sighed softly, prodding the swollen ankle one last time with her wand, easing the inflammation, before standing up, brushing off her robes. "You will experience some slight discomfort and pain for the next couple of days; you tore a ligament. I healed it to the best of my abilities, but it will still be uncomfortable to walk on. I suggest you avoid running around the halls for the next week."

"I don't run around the halls," Draco muttered, immediately getting to his feet. He stumbled, ankle throbbing with a dull pain, but he managed to make his way over to Hermione's bedside.