𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨

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St. Mungo's

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HERMIONE felt her heart tear in half within the cage of her chest as soon as she saw Zabini carrying Draco into his room, unconscious and limp in his arms.

She had been seated on the rimmed edge of his mattress, her sight fixed on her hands in which rested on her lap. 

She had been waiting to speak to him about the advice Avery had given to her — for them to remain discrete about their romantic feelings for one another until Healer Silverspoon returned, hence upholding the rules of a Healer.

And Draco had wanted to admit something to her too, as he so clearly stated in the letter he left for her earlier that morning, or whenever he departed.

She hadn't expected him to be gone all day, but now that she was looking at him, the fear of his condition flooding through her veins.

Her eyes held wide and her feet glued to the floor restricted her movements. Doubt rippled through her as horrifying thoughts floated in her brain — what if he was dead?

What if she was staring at his corpse being brought toward her for examination? She couldn't do that, couldn't stomach it. Her throat began to swell as she ruminated.

She stood at once, spinning around on her heel with her back to the pair of them, snagging the corners of the linen sheets she had previously been sitting on over and folding to brush out the creases.

"Granger." Zabini's words had blurred through the line from when he had spoken them to when they had met her ears. The blood rushing through them drowned out any further noises. 

She stepped away, keeping her eyes floored as she rounded the bed and Zabini came forward, splaying the blonde man across the mattress.

Hermione couldn't watch, her back to the pair of them as she stared at the night sky behind the pane of the window, her eyes pooling with tears as one slipped down her cheek, her hand reaching up to wipe it clean quickly.

"Granger," Zabini repeated, sternly, his tone laced with seriousness. "He's fine."

Her breath caught in her lungs, as she turned without thinking. She sought to hide her sadness, but he had already seen it, yet he didn't falter, as though he had been expecting it.

"He passed out after we apparated; the pressure of it was too much for him to handle. He's drunk."

Serenity washed over her at his tells, until she repeated them in her mind, and suddenly anger had replaced her inner peace, her nerves flaring.

"Drunk?" asked Hermione, in need of confirmation, her chords strong and powerful. A glare had written over her features as her tears had disappeared. "You let him drink when you know that could lead to a possibility of further memory loss?"

Zabini flinched as Hermione lunged forward, hovering her body over the blonde's, noticing how his chest rose and dipped normally. She couldn't even look at the other, afraid of her own capability.

Slowly, her neck arched as her jaw set, her arms folding across her chest as she waited for him to defend himself.

His eyes narrowed into thin slits, a scoff following this motion; his brow arched, and he cleared his throat, choosing his next words carefully.

But instead, he said nothing.

"Well?" She provoked him, her tells breaking into their overstretched silences of glowering. "Answer me."