Hospital Wing Incident
//~Harry~//
Malfoy and I ended up in the Hospital Wing.
"You shouldn't move too much, dear. It'll slow down the effects of the dittany." Madam Promfey constantly nags, occasionally replacing the ointment on my scars.
I had gotten multiple scars and wounds around my face down to my knees. Angelina says I landed on my side, explaining the bruise on my side. She also says I held onto Malfoy throughout the duration of the fall, which also explains the lack of injuries on him. Ron says it's bloody unfair, but Hermione seems to finally be coming along to my side when she said that I did it as comradery.
"Even with the enemy outside of Quidditch?" Ron had asked her incredulously, which was retorted with: "Yes, Ron. As much as I hate to admit it, yes."
It's been 2 days since that match and fall. I can move a bit more freely but still slightly hindered by the burning pain on my side.
Now I stare out the window, munching on a chocolate frog from time to time. The Gryffindors had brought me sweets and assortment of food, the Weasley twins even bothering to ask me if I wanted to try a new invention (which I declined). The feel of the ointment on my scars was quite heavy, but stinged sometimes as the skin slowly closed up the wound. The wonders of a healer..
Sometimes I take a look at Malfoy from my bed, to see how he was doing. He had gotten some gifts from the Slytherins as well, visits from Pansy and Blaise who I hear whenever I attempt to sleep. They were either helping him catch up on homework, or updating him on Hogwarts gossip. An hour ago I've realized I've heard more gossip during my stay in the Hospital Wing than in the Great Hall. Gossip from McGonagall and Umbridge having a verbal beating with one another in the library, to Elizabeth Rivera dumping her plate of food on Verena Westmiller who was the homewrecker in her relationship with Benjamin Carrington. It was almost refreshing to hear a new piece of gossip everyday, from the girl who somehow knew it all—Pansy Parkinson.
"Hey, Potter?"
I pivot my head to the direction of the voice, seeing Malfoy propping himself up on his own bed. "What?"
I notice how his cheeks were somewhat flushed. Either from his fever or from wounding his pride.
"Pass me some dittany." He responds.
"Why do you even need dittany? All you've got is a fever." I prop myself up as well, opening another box of chocolate frogs.
"Are you blind, Potter? Pansy nearly scratched my face open with a quill. Drew on my face and didn't bother realizing I was bleeding."
If he wasn't Malfoy I would've probably laughed. Nevertheless, I did laugh.
I burst out laughing, placing down my chocolate frog, neglecting the card inside. My hand adjust my glasses and took a good look at him from afar, yeah his face was stained with ink. And he was probably bleeding, I couldn't tell.
"So will you pass me some dittany?" Malfoy spat out impatiently. "I can't do that, Malfoy. I'm not a healer." I shrug my shoulders.
"I know you aren't, however, I know you're someone with common sense to realize that dittany can be used on wounds." He berates. "Madam Promfey would put me in the wing for a month if I did."
Draco then began muttering incoherent nothings (assumably insults towards my being), snatching a box of tissues by his nightstand to wipe his face off. It wouldn't work though, the tissue would irritate the wound.
"Don't do that." I found myself saying, watching as he pauses in his actions to give me an arched brow.
"I thought you aren't a healer." He replies sarcastically. Ha, funny.
"I've got common sense." I shoot back sarcastically, sighing as I force myself up my bed, knowing I wasn't supposed to.
"What on merlin's beard are you doing?" Malfoy questions ridiculously.
I don't respond, instead, limping towards his bed which was fortunately across mine. My wounds were weighing me down from walking properly, most especially the bruise on my side which was interfering with the movement of my leg's muscles. Malfoy's face contorts into one of confusion, watching me. I felt his eyes on me, probably doubting me even.
"How bad is it?" He asks.
"The ink's blocking the actual wound." I reply, taking a handkerchief from my pocket (which I kept on me almost all the time). My eyes dart around the nearest vicinity, set on the fruit bowl.
I take out all the fruit, dusting off the dirt, and turning to Draco. "Do you know the Water-making spell?"
Draco eyes me skeptically, before nodding. "I tried it once."
"Did it work?" I ask.
"Yeah." Draco nods.
"Do it in the bowl." I set the bowl down on his nightstand, handing him his wand which was on it as well.
His fingers wrap around his wand, brushing against mine. Barely grazing my own fingertips with his own.
"Aguamenti." He flicks his wand, water pouring from the edge and into the bowl, filling it just enough. "Now what?" He asks.
I soak my handkerchief in the water, squeezing it and turning to Draco. "I'll wipe your face."
Malfoy stares at me, and to the damp handkerchief in my hand. He probably doesn't trust me enough for this, but he probably also doesn't have a choice other than to let me do so.
"Fine." Malfoy grumbles.
Slowly, I bring the handkerchief to his face, gently wiping off the ink staining his pale skin. My spare hand instinctively holds the side of his face to keep his head still as I wiped off the ink. With each wipe I make with the damp handkerchief, the more visible his scars were. The scar from the quill almost looks similar to the ones carved into my hand. But I couldn't bring that up, not now.
"Is it bad?" He solicits, almost a demand.
"Not that bad." I reply with an assuring tone, wiping off every last drop of ink on his face. I knew how much his own face meant to him, so might as well do him a favor. Unusually, Malfoy stayed quiet the entire time I was cleaning his face. It was a nice silence for once. One not filled with troubled tension, and palpable air. One filled with trust, if we can even call it so.
He had two adjacent scars on his left eye to his right cheek, one longer than the other.
"Episkey." Malfoy utters out.
"Episkey, right." I acknowledge, having actually forgotten what episkey was used for, or even looked like.
The silence stays in the air once again.
"Episkey, Potter." Malfoy blurts out, as if expecting me to do something.
"Episkey what? Acci—" I sputter.
"Episkey is a spell not an object!" Malfoy states exasperatedly, probably proving himself right that I wasn't the best healer.
"Oh. Well sorry, Malfoy." I clear my throat awkwardly, pulling out my wand from my pocket (which I stole from Madam Promfey) and holding it in front of Malfoy.
"Do you not know how to cast it?" He asks impatiently, his irritation clearly growing from his expression. I couldn't blame him, I wouldn't want me as a healer either.. We both had no choice in this matter. On my case, I couldn't watch him irritate his own wounds from the tissue. And on his, he probably couldn't decline my help.
"How.. Do you?" I mutter.
"Feel all the good in the world bubble up in your heart and picture rainbows and pegasi." Malfoy responds sarcastically, with a bite of snark in his voice.
"Sorry for not being as advanced as you, Malfoy." I exhale, holding it in front of Malfoy as I muster up all my knowledge on spells, or whatever. "Episkey."
A soft burn emits from his scars, making him wince sharply. Fortunately, the spell had worked, and his scars were covered up. "Did it work?"
"What do you think, Potter? Did it?" Malfoy spat out, scoffing lightly as he let his fingers travel on his own face.
"You look better handsome." I say.
Better handsome? Did I really say that to the face of Malfoy? Directed towards Malfoy?
Malfoy looked equally as shocked as me, but instead of wide eyes, his pale cheeks went a tint of rosy pink. Was he blushing? Blushing at my compliment? My blunt compliment?
"Don't mock me like that, Potter. It doesn't suit you."
"Would it be mocking if I meant it, Malfoy? I mean.." Merlin's beard, I sound like I'm a complete fool!
"I mean what, Potter?!" Malfoy spat out, cheeks undeniably red now. Was he embarrassed?
"I mean that you are handsome, and I'm saying that because I'm not mocking, because I mean that you are handsome, and I'm not mocking, and.. And.." I sputter out in a drastic failed save at my dignity.
He blinks, tensing up at my words. I felt him tense up from his now still legs which I was almost sitting on. "You think I'm handsome?"
"Yeah, you are, but-" I blurt out, and I feel all the blood in my body rise up to my cheeks as I realize the implication of my own words. And my previous words register in my head, and I feel my face go fuzzy warm.
We sit there. In complete silence. In complete, troubled silence. In a silence we've only now achieved, which was probably a first in both our lives. And I caused it, great. I mean I did think he was handsome..
"Thank you. If it wasn't to mock me." Malfoy clears his throat in another attempt to soothe the palpable tension in the air we inhale and then exhale.
"I meant it, Malfoy." I swallow. "You are handsome, I mean it. And you're welcome."
"You can stop telling me I'm handsome now, Potter." He sinks into his bed, eyes away from my figure to ease down his visibly flustered state.
"But—"
"I get it, I'm handsome. Not that I wouldn't mind you telling me that everyday—"
I snap my head to his direction, those words registering in my head faster than any of Snape's lessons. "What?"
His cheeks go an even more deeper shade of red, watching him purse his lips into a thin line in frustration. "Nothing." He lies through his teeth.
"Malfoy, I heard you,"
"No, you did not."
"Yes I did hear you, very clear actually!" I hear the smile in my voice creeping up.
"No you did not, not clearly actually, Potter!" He huffs.
"I still think you're handsome, Malfoy." I say softly, eyeing him.
He was. He was indeed handsome, and I couldn't deny it. He's the first fall of snow the second Autumn ends, he's the first speck of white on the warm shades of red and orange leaves, he was the epitome of Winter. Cold, ruthless, but nevertheless mesmerizing.
Slowly, his eyes fix on mine as he regains his composure.
"Get some sleep, Potter." He utters out with an undertone of annoyance. "You do too."
I hold on to the railing below his feet, standing up from the edge of his bed and limping towards my own. As I sat down, I stole another glance at him, who was making himself comfortable on the bed; letting himself sink into the sheets and pillows. He almost looked like winter. I swear, he was Winter.