Fear. It protects us. Stimulates a vital survival instinct within us- fight or flight.
Her legs gave up. Wasn't sure of how many floors and stairs she had sprinted, stumbled, picked herself up from and sprinted again until her body could no longer handle it. And at some point, somewhere far, far away from Malfoy, she dropped. Collapsed; fell to the ground, panting— in one of the girls' lavatory, it seemed, judging by the marbled floors and row of sinks.
Her head is swooning. The room is swaying, the blurred and disoriented sinks and toilets swishing from side to side then back again. There's a furious ringing in her ears. Tears running down her flushed cheeks. And her gasps— desperate, quivering gasps for air because she can't breathe. She can't breathe, but she can. It's what she thinks drowning feels like.
Drowning. Seems like a better way to go than this. But at least it wasn't in his hands.
But the hot, sticky acid accumulating in her throat threatens its way out. She gags, hands flying over her mouth. Crawls—throws herself over the nearest toilet. The bile swims out, yellowish liquid spilling into the bowl with a disgusting retch. It smells foul, but fatigue forces her to slump over the bowl, her head rapidly spinning so fast she can't keep up.
Her curls, damp with sweat, fall into her line of vision, creating blurry red streaks against the egg-shell colored stall. She can only hear two things now: her own soft, uneven pants, and the very beating of her heart, thrusting her blood against the walls of her arteries and veins. Pounding, like rhythmic drums.
But other than those two, it's only silence that enfolds her. It comforts her—enough to allow herself to cave in to enervation; her eyelids slowly commence to rest. Her muscles relax. She sees black.
____________________
"No visitors."
"We're her cousin! Madam Pomfrey, please-"
"Brother, actually."
"Not now, Hugo."
She's in that half-awake half-asleep phase, she thinks. Has to be. When everything is still black because it's too tiring to open your eyes but your brain is already processing what sensory neurons pick up. Yeah, that.
She opens her eyes. Blinks once to clear up the blur. Twice, for good measure. Takes in the thin wall of curtains around her. The vague smell of chocolate and medicine. Remembers who had just been addressed— Madam Pomfrey, that is.
The Hospital Wing. Having known where she was, she focuses on what she can't see. Focuses on what she can hear.
The voices of her cousins—and brother—are faint, but not by distance. In fact, she can only presume that they're just behind the curtains. They're faint in the way that her brain deceives; makes them sound blurred. Hazy. Disoriented.
It makes her head ache. She wants them to shut up.
"I will not ask you boys and girls again. Take a seat and be quiet or leave."
"But-"
"No 'but's.' Miss. Weasley needs her rest, and you all will do well leaving her to it."
A series of groans and grumbles erupted among her visitors; and alongside them was muttered Malfoy's name.
It triggers something inside of her. Makes her heart pause for a mere second. And it all comes rushing back, hitting her like a tsunami— everything. It flashes in her head and in an instant, she is back in his arms. Screaming. Struggling. Crying. She feels his icy touch— it stings her skin. Smells spearmint and his distinct expensive cologne. Can't breathe.
She doesn't hear her own scream. But they do.
The curtain flies open. Too many faces barge in— rushing to her side, asking her questions. Holding her down. Why are they holding her down?
"Miss. Weasley! Calm down, please!"
"Rose! Goodness, Rose, what's-"
What's going on?
"What happened!"
"Rose-"
Too many voices. She doesn't understand, what-
"Stop fighting us-"
"Merlin, Rose, what-"
"Enough!" Madam Pomfrey says. She can at least distinguish who the sharp, strident voice belongs to. "Out. All of you...Now!"
They clear out reluctantly, tossing uneased looks over their shoulders before Pomfrey shoves them out. Swings the curtains shut, leaving her alone with the matron.
There's a silence between them. Rose looking desperately at Pomfrey, and Madam Pomfrey with her back to her patient, busy with something.
Then Pomfrey turns to Rose, holding a small vial of orange liquid.
"Feeling better, dear?" she asks kindly.
"Yes." It comes out a croak, her voice scratching from screaming. Clears her throat. "Madam? What am I doing here?"
She surveys her surroundings once more, then herself. There's a small spot of dried blood staining her elbow. She rubs it off. There's no wound and she doesn't think she's bleeding anywhere. Wonders how it got there.
Pomfrey doesn't look surprised that she doesn't remember. She puts the vial up to Rose's lips and with a soft but stern voice, says, "Drink this first, then ask questions."
Her lips part and the medicine slides in. She squeezes her eyes shut, crinkling her nose— it burns her throat as it makes its way down. Pomfrey hands her a glass of water, which she generously gulps down.
She opens her mouth but before she can ask any questions, Pomfrey interrupts.
"Are you feeling light-headed?"
"No. What am-"
"Are you feeling feverish?"
"No. What-"
"Look here. Follow my finger."
She sighed, but did as the matron said. Then, Pomfrey dragged out a seat and sat next to the cot. Silence stretched before Madam Pomfrey approached rather carefully—
"What do you remember, Miss. Weasley?"
"I-" She pauses. Didn't want the memories to reoccur; claimed a half lie, half truth. "I don't know."
"You cannot recall anything from last night?"
She shakes her head meekly.
"That's alright— don't strain yourself trying to remember. My best guess is that you suffered from an anxiety attack. A quick diagnostic has shown that your epinephrine level was incredibly high— you were bound to crash sooner or later."
"How long have I been out?"
"Not long, dear. Not long. In fact-" She casts a diagnostic spell before continuing— "You seem to be doing exceptionally well. Your blood pressure and heart rate are stabilizing. And your-"
"So I can I leave?"
Pomfrey gets up, shaking her head. "No, not yet, I'm afraid."
"But I feel fine! Madam Pomfrey, please. It was a little panic attack, but I assure you, I'm as well as I can be," Rose persists. With everything that had happened, the last she wanted was to be locked in the Hospital Wing. She longed to see familiar faces.
"No."
After many more of her persistent claims, beseeching Pomfrey to dismiss her, Pomfrey reluctantly agreed.
She sighed, rubbing her hand across her forehead. "I suppose I can let you go...but you must do well to come back before the days end for another check up." She puts up a threatening boney finger. "You will do so. I cannot have children fainting around in the halls, now can I?"
Rose sprang up from the cot, ignoring the sudden throb in her head. "Thank you, Madam! I promise I'll come back later."
Madam Pomfrey eyed the girl wearily and sighed, leaving with mutters of how she is most certainly her father's daughter.
____________________
"An exam score?" Dominique repeats doubtfully. "You passed out over...an exam score?"
"Yes," she lied. Wasn't sure if she was any good at it, judging by the skeptical looks being passed about the table.
It's dinner now, and seeing that Rose spent her time since she awoke until just a few minutes ago to catch up with any classes she missed that day—with the intentional benefit of avoiding her family, for she didn't know what she was going to say to them—her family bombarded her with inquires and worries.
"It's all that studying," Hugo says, breaking the tension. He breaks off a chicken leg and shoves it in his mouth, chewing while he continues, "It's making her go mad.
"Oh, shut it, Hugo," she says, following it by scolding her little brother about chewing with his mouth open.
The rest of dinner goes by smoothly; Rose finds herself disconnecting from their lively chatter and focuses on something she had fought so desperately to avoid. But her body devices her and before she can stop herself, her eyes travel over Lily's shoulder to the Slytherin table.
But he's not there. He had always sat there, in that spot, right next to Albus. But today he's not. She swallows nervously. Hastily looks around the dining hall. Scans it, searching for a tall boy with white-blonde hair, absurdly pale skin, and a sharp, phlegmatic countenance— there's only one who fits the description. She doesn't see him.
A tug of her robe drags her attention elsewhere. She turns around.
A small Hufflepuff boy stands there tall and proud with his hands behind his back. "The Headmistress wishes to see you. The-" He pauses, scratching his head. Seems to have forgotten the message he had so proudly memorized. "Oh! Now. The Headmistress wishes to see you now. The password is-" He whispers the password into her ear. With that, he scurries away to the table of yellow and black.
She looks back to her family around the table; questioning looks were passed around. She shrugs and flashes them a small smile. "I'll see you guys later then." Doesn't wait for their replies before she pushes her plate aside and sets out to see Professor McGonagall.
When she reaches the gargoyle corridor, they demand for a password.
"Sopophorous."
They let her in.
"Miss. Weasley." Professor McGonagall is sitting before her, sliding her spectacles down her nose bridge. She gestures to Rose to sit in the seat across, to which Rose complies wordlessly.
There's an uncomfortable silence that engulfs that— at least on Rose's behalf. McGonagall sits patiently, watching the student before her with a stern gaze. Then says—
"I see that you are feeling better. Recovering, I hope?"
"Yes, Professor. I only fainted."
McGonagall nods. "Poppy has informed me that you have no recollection of why you passed out. Is that still true."
"Unfortunately, yes," she lies. Not sure why, because telling the Headmistress about what had happened last night appears like the only logical thing to do. And while Rose is naturally rational, going through with this clearly judicious notion just seems utterly wrong. And it's absolutely hilarious to her—she even huffs a silent laugh—because no one, absolutely no one in their right mind would button their lips had a werewolf— and fellow student, mind you, nearly attacked them. No one. It's so obviously stupid; and yet she chooses to. Not out of shock or disbelief or anything of the sort, but because of a bloody gut feeling. An absurd, irrational, imprudent gut feeling.
McGonagall isn't convinced; she's not stupid. It would take far more than a word or two to fool a highly intelligent elder. But in spite of that, she doesn't push the matter any further. Switches to another subject. "And Mr. Malfoy?"
She chokes on her own saliva, spluttering wildly. Takes a moment to compose herself, but the flush of her cheeks refuse to clear. "What- erm, what about Malfoy?" She's relieved when it comes out calmer than she had expected.
"Mr. Malfoy is the one who had brung you to the Hospital Wing. I'm afraid I don't have too much intelligence in this matter and must come to you regarding his whereabouts yesternight. Anything you can recall would be greatly appreciated."
Rose's face drawn up in confusion, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted slightly. Too many questions parade her mind; like waves crashing over each other, never once letting a question be thoroughly thought out before the next one intrudes: Malfoy brought her to the hospital. Does McGonagall know what really happened? No, that can't be. There are no signs that Rose had ever been touched by a werewolf— that is, if McGonagall knows at all what Malfoy is. All it appears she knows is that Rose fainted and that- that Malfoy brought her to the hospital. Malfoy brought her to the hospital. Malfoy brought her to the hospital. Malfoy brought her to the hospital. No matter how she put it, it didn't make sense. Why would he bring her there? After trying to kill her, why? It doesn't add up. It must be a mistake. Is McGongall even sure that-
"Malfoy brought me up?" she inquires in a small voice.
"Yes."
"And-" She clears her throat, a lump having been lodged there to prevent the question she knows she shouldn't be asking. "And where is he now?"
"Miss. Weasley, do stay focused. I need your utmost attention now."
She shakes her head, ridding of the dangerous inquiries spewing up in there. Apologies, and lies to the Headmistress, claiming that she has no remembrance of Malfoy having ever even been with her.
"Miss. Weasley, I do hope you aren't providing me with any falsehoods."
"Never, Professor."
Silence grows between them before McGonagall sighs, taking off her spectacles and whipping it clean with the front of her robe. "Yes, I believe you. You are one of the brightest and most responsible students I have ever received the pleasure of having. That is enough reason for me to believe that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mr. Malfoy had found and benevolently helped you. Yes?"
Rose nods, going along with it.
"Very well then. That is all I need from you. You may leave."
She nods again, somewhat relieved to be dismissed. Leaves as she's told, Rose heads back to her dorm for well needed rest.
____________________
He doesn't show up. One week since the...erm, incident, and he doesn't show up. Not once. Despite the innumerous times during dinner she had looked over Lily's shoulders to the sea of green and silver, she had not once seen him; not during their morning Potions lectures on Mondays and not during their evening DADA classes on Thursdays; not in the corridors among passing periods and not during the Slytherin/Ravenclaw quidditch game— to which one particular team was missing their seeker.
She hates that it bothers her. Hates the way she can't seem to clear her thoughts of him. Of what might have happened to him— despite that that should be the least of her concerns. Worry, albeit she refuses to believe she feels so. She lazily picks at her food with a fork, ignorant of anything else but that. But clearly, she isn't the only one. The whole school noticed his abstinence. It wasn't long before rumors circulated— which in no way at all aided in easing her mind.
"I heard that he stupefied you," Dominique whispers into her ear while they sit in the dining hall, eating dinner. "Is it true, Rose?"
She sighs, picking at her food absently with her fork. But the irony of the claim makes her bite the inside of her cheek. "I don't know."
"It would make sense, no? Then to save himself, he took you to the hospital wing," she finishes in a matter of factly way.
She wishes it was that easy.
"Are you kidding me?" Albus joins in. He had been eavesdropping from his table and turned angrily around.
"What? It's a possibility, isn't it?"
"Oh, that's rubbish and you know it!"
She bites down harder. They don't know what they're talking about.
"Look Al, I get that he's your friend and everything but this is Rose we're talking about. Are you going to sit here and tell me that it's all just some huge coincidence that Malfoy was just strolling around the third floor girls' lavatory and he just happened to find Rose unconscious. Sick, with clear signs of stress, and unconscious? On a school night? Really?"
"Guys, come on— not again. Don't do this..." Lily interferes, turning around to lightly push back her vexed, red-faced brother. But Albus doesn't relent.
"I'm telling you that it's damn well a good thing that he did! Merlin, what is your problem with him? He hasn't done anything to you! Why would Scorpius even attack her in the first place, huh? Tell me, Dom, because apparently you know so much about this matter."
"It's Malfoy," Dominique scowls, her own face reddening with growing aggravation. "Isn't that enough of a reason?"
She's had enough. Abruptly stands up and leaves the dining hall, muttering about a headache she needed to consult Pomfrey about.
"They don't know anything," she murmurs to herself when she's alone, walking through the empty corridors. She kicks aside a broken pebble from the flagstone walls.
They care more about whether Malfoy's guilty or not than they do about her. The argument hadn't surprised her in the least. They had been doing this all week. But not once, not genuinely, had they asked her about what happened. About why she's so nerve wrecked, constantly on the outlook for a pale blonde boy who might just rip her throat out when she's not on the watch. She was ready to tell Dom. After a day when the shock wore off. And she was going to, but Dom being just as prejudiced as a Weasley could be towards a Malfoy was more intent on pinning Malfoy down with meaningless rumors. And Al...Al was a lost cause. If she was ever to tell Albus what had really happened, he would only deny it. Deny it, and call her a liar. Now Lily would have seemed like the best choice but Rose couldn't bring herself to involve someone she considered a little sister into this.
So she had no one to tell. No one who would truly listen.
Rose bites down harder. Tastes something warm and metallic, and frees her teeth of her flesh. Doesn't realize that she's opened the door of her destination until she sees the two parallel rows of cots lined ahead. She takes a seat in one of the chairs besides the doors, looking around for the familiar healer. Instead, an assistant follows out of Pomfrey's office and questions her.
"I'm waiting for Madam Pomfrey? She has brewed me a dose of headache relief, and I've just run out," she explains to the man.
"Poppy is out for supplies at the moment. Just sit still. When she's back I'll inform her."
Rose nods as he leaves to check up on one of the patients. She crosses her leg over the other and hums a soft tune to herself to consume herself in something other than the stabbing headache. It helps, a little. Eyes scanning the room, she recognizes a few familiar faces that aren't hidden by curtain privacy screens. A Ravenclaw girl who she had done a transfiguration project with, who laid on the bed with a terrible cough; a fellow Gryffindor just a year below her, whom she recognized as one of Lily's friends, sat with a shoulder sling; and Lorcan Scamander— a family friend, who beckons her to come over.
She hesitates, for her head makes it far from easy to think of what she could say to him. Despite not having talked to him for well over two years, they had once been best friends. Whatever happened to them, she didn't know.
She forces him a smile and begins to maneuver her way around a row of beds over to the cot which he stood by— she owed him at least that.
"Rose! What a peculiarly wonderful surprise. Whatever are you doing here?"
This makes her genuinely smile. She had forgotten how odd he was. Not in a bad way— she loved how strange he was. It was unique; it wouldn't be Lorcan if he didn't act bizarre.
"Hey, Lor. I was just picking up a potion Pomfrey brewed for me. I've got a terrible headache, you see."
Closer now, she notices how much he's grown since fourth year. He's still just as skinny, only taller now. And his golden blonde hair has grown out, reaching just above his shoulders.
"Have you tried Dabberblimp mucus? It's a miracle worker!"
"Dabberblimp? Lorcan, I don't think they're real..."
"Of course they're real! They hide inside the Great Lake— that's why we've never seen them. Mischievous little creatures, they are."
She shakes her head as a laugh tumbles off her lips. "I've missed you. Whatever happened to us?"
His smile fades and a blush creeps up his cheeks. "I guess you just made other friends." He forces a chuckle, scratching the back of his head.
Lorcan never had too many friends. People always thought he was weird; even his own twin hardly acknowledged him. That was partly why she declared him as her best friend so many years ago— the other part being because she had genuinely enjoyed his company. And she never thought about it until now, but she left him. Not deliberately— she would never. It weighs a load of guilt on her shoulders and she decides to make due with reconciliation.
"Oh, Lorcan...I never meant to leave you on your own like that-"
His hands fly out, waving around in an attempt to clear up miscommunications. "I don't blame you, Rose! It's okay. We grew up."
"Yes, but that doesn't mean we can't hang out anymore, right?"
A smile stretches across his face— she feels a sense of relief that he didn't turn away her offer.
"So, what are you doing here?" She examines him up and down, searching for any signs that he should be at the hospital wing, though finds none. He seems perfectly healthy.
He notices her examination and blushes. "Oh, I'm not a patient. I'm actually here because..."
Rose doesn't hear anything he says thus forth when the name "Malfoy" is muttered. Like a dear at the simple sound of a twig snapping, she freezes. Grows alert. Tunes out Lorcan's voice and listens carefully for who sounded like the same nurse she had briefly talked to earlier.
There's nothing at first. Then, disjointed, only perceiving the words often repeated with much emphasis—
"Mr. Malfoy—critical—fortunate—unclear-"
There's an unrecognizable voice that follows. He speaks lowly— she can't decipher who it is or what he's saying. It's coming from a few beds away, she presumes.
"Rose?"
Lorcan snaps her back to reality. Distracts her from her eavesdropping.
"I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"
"I asked if you would like to go looking for Dabberblimps with me? You know, for your head pain?"
She feels terrible for declining, especially since he seemed so fascinated with the idea of such a quest. But she's heard enough to piece together one thing: Malfoy is here. In this very same room. Somewhere, she knows it. And she can't let this go. The voices were fading— falling further away.
"Not today, Lor. I'm sorry, I really am." She reaches out and grabs ahold of his hand, squeezing it. Rushes out a lie to back her up. "It's just- this awful headache and Pomfrey wishes me to stay-"
He squeezes back, flashing her an odd smile. "It's alright, Rose." But his eyes spoke another language, and she feels absolutely awful when she sees them go glassy. He rushes past her, grabbing his coat from a chair and tugging it over him. Is almost out the door when she finally manages to think of what to say.
"Where are you going?"
"To go find you some Dabberblimps!" he called out from over his shoulder before the door shut.
"Best of luck to that," she mutters with a small smile. Of course he was going to go find her it. That's Lorcan.
And then there's silence. Most of the kids there had left already, leaving only few patients in the Wing— who were all asleep. She hears a shuffle of feet— head snaps towards the direction it comes from, but a curtain wall prevents her from the view. The creak of the double doors opening and the thud of them falling is all she hears before she peeks through the curtains— and by then, it's too late; the mysterious man in that room had left with the nurse.
"Malfoy is here," she says quietly to herself. "Why is he here?"
Her curiosity gets the best of her, and her feet move upon their accord. She tip-toes through the middle passageway created between the two rows of cots. In each row is a number of beds, each cot surrounded with the same curtain privacy shields. Few candles are still lit, feebly flicking an amber glow. And as she strolls farther and farther down, nearing Promfrey's office, she hears a soft groan. It comes from a cot sitting in the far end corner. Isolated. Concealed.
It can be anyone. She knows that. But she will never know who it is that lays in there until she checks.
Rose pushes aside the curtain. It's scarcely visible— the faint glimmer of a single candle's dying embers being the only thing between this and pitch darkness. It lights up the vague outline of someone lying on the cot just a few feet distant. A silhouette. But a shock of platinum reflects off the light and her heart drops. She's not sure if it's her luck or misfortune that she finds him there. Asleep— unconscious.
He can't hurt her. Not in that state.
So she takes a timid step inside. Slides the curtains shut. Closes the distance between them with small, cautious steps. When she stops, standing just beside the pillow, the moonshines' luminescent corroborates who it is. A cut gasp slips out between her lips. Quivering hands fly up to mute it.
Because it's not how she expects to see him. Not what she had envisioned as she approached him. Not anything she had prepared for; and the mere sight of it makes her sick to her stomach.
Red against white. That's all she sees. Red against white. The white of his skin, deadly pale. His arm and torso are covered in bandages that look a fair shade of yellow in comparison. Scarlet bleeds through them. Stains them, patches of blood spreading through the cotton wraps like ink does paper. As her eyes carefully draw up his body, they reach his neck. Dried, bloody gashes score their way up and over each other like terribly drawn tic-tac-toe boards that had never gotten to being played. And it only gets worse as her horrified eyes travel farther up. Scratches—like thin red threads— everywhere. Just everywhere. A flesh-deep slash cuts across his left cheek. Scarlet droplets leak out, drawing slow red lines down to his jaw. His hair seems to be the only canvas unpainted— cleaned. Washed. The others had to be a slow perpetual bleeding.
Her brain tied everything together, flashing back and forth from the night in the Forbidden Forest to now. And all she can think is one thing. One heartbreaking thing.
It's all her fault.
She stupefied him. God, she- she stupefied him. In wolves territory, she stupefied him. And they attacked. But— no. That would have been her, had she not done what she did. What she had to do. Otherwise Malfoy would have done the very same to her, only leaving her for death.
But then she recalls what Pomfrey said earlier. Recalls the small patch of dried blood she found on her elbow. Put one and one together— and she remembers. A blurry flash behind her eyelids: a tangy, metallic smell. The disoratened end of the corridor swaying side to side. A bloody arm, holding her up. Carrying her to the Hospital Wing.
And she's only left wondering the same thing as before: why? Everything he has done— nothing adds up.
She doesn't realize the lift of her arm— the stretch of it, until her fingertips graze the icy plane of his cheek. Her eyes grow wide and she feels the warm rush of blood creep up her neck; but she doesn't pull away. Rose keeps her fingers dead still, afraid that any single movement may awaken the beast. And it's minutes that she stands there, frozen, just barely touching Malfoy's slashed cheek. And it must be the perfectly angled dim gleam of amber dying away, or perhaps the radiance of silver moonshine against his face— what makes her release a soft breath she had been holding in for so long. What makes the fear fade into something she can't quite comprehend.
Her trembling fingers move upon their own accord. They draw down with careful thought of his score. Touches his lips and rests there for a second. Chills run down her spine when she feels the warmth of his breath whisper against her fingers. She draws further down, skimming the line of his jaw and finding the sharp plane of his cheek. His aristocratic features beam under the moonlight. Sharp and angled. And he...he looks beautiful.
Her fingers stretch; palm spreads out— caresses his face. The cold spreads like wildfire up her hand but she doesn't let go.
His hands twitch and eyebrows draw together and he makes some sort of indescribable sound— a disjoined whimper, almost. And he shifts—bells ring in her head, warning her to step away—he shifts and- and his body reacts to her touch. Leans in, nuzzling his cheek against her hand. He relaxes; muscles go slack once more.
Rose releases a shaky breath. And in the bliss of a moment, she forgets what he did. Forgets whatever sick intentions he had that night. Because this—him—isn't the same boy from the forest. Isn't the same boy who's eyes seared of pure hatred when he looked at her, even as he spoke with words laced in honey. Isn't the same boy who's lips curled in disgust by the mere sight of her, despite the wickedly sweet smiles he faked. It's that very same boy but it isn't.
This is a boy who lies in tranquility, ignorant of this world. Escaped, dare she say. And with her hand ever-so gently caressing this boy, she wonders if there is a reason why one would be so wicked in this world, yet beautiful in another.
She's so lost in pure awe that she doesn't make out the few pairs of footfalls echoing off the flagstone floors or the swish of the curtains flying aside.
"Get your hands off of my son."
____________________
This was sort of a slow chapter but interesting ending? Sorry for the wait; I had acually written this chapter differently at first but didn't like it so rewrote it, hence why this update took so long. Please don't forget to comment what you think! I'd love to hear it!!
Also—MAN OF MY WORD, BABY'S VERSE. OH. MY. GOD. COLD AF. BEST RAPPER IN THE GAME END OF DISSCUSSION.
Word count: 5,123