A deep, stinging pain snaked across your left shoulder, waking you up.
"Fuck..." You muttered, rubbing your eyes, and opening them to see a tall, grey stone ceiling in a rather small room. You tried to push yourself up, realising too late that there was something wrong with your arm and causing an excruciating bolt of pain through your nerves.
You yelped, falling back down onto the bed.
Immediately a nurse appeared at your bedside, hovering over you with a scarily attentive look plastered across her face.
"You're awake." She said.
"I noticed." You said, slightly annoyed that she didn't offer you any help.
She grabbed a glass off the bedside table, thrusting it in your face. "Drink." She scuttled away, tending to a chalkboard on the other end of the room.
You propped yourself up with your good arm, sitting back on the wall behind you. The liquid in the glass was clear, but far thicker than water. It smelt like sour breath and grass; delicious. You took a sip and had to use every ounce of self-control in your body to not spit it out. It tasted like gone-off vodka. Putting the rest back on the bedside table you looked around the room; there were about ten empty, white beds around the room, each with a bedside table next to it. The nurse was on the other end of the room, scribbling something about potions onto a stained blackboard as she muttered to herself, before grabbing a bandage and scuttling to the bed opposite to you, grabbing the leg of the person laying down as they protested, scoffing at the less-than-five-star treatment in the school nurses office.
"Ouch!" You heard them spit indignantly.
Malfoy.
You were about to say something when you felt another pang of pain run through your left shoulder, looking down to see your arm in a sling, hanging limply by your side. There were blood-stained bandages coiling down your upper-arm, stopping at your elbow, and you saw smudges of dirt across the rest of your arm. Good to know the nurse values hygiene.
You looked back to Draco as the nurse wrapped a bandage around his ankle, every few seconds scolding him for not staying still. She grabbed a glass of what looked like the same stuff she gave you and thrust it in his face, frowning as she once again scurried away. He sat up, tutting at her before taking a massive sip and immediately spitting it out, disgust painted across his face.
You couldn't help but laugh out loud, pretending to be serious when he sung round, shooting you a look of offence.
"Oh yay, you're awake." He rolled his eyes, scratching the back of his neck as he put the glass back down.
"Yeah," You returned the sarcasm. "I noticed."
He laughed, looking at the bandage on your shoulder. "I'd say enjoy my position on the team, but somehow i don't think you'll be playing for a while."
"Yeah..." You looked down, not quite sure how it even got injured; you landed on soft grass, not broken bottles, so how did you get such a massive cut on your arm. "How did this happen?"
"My broom snapped," Draco said angrily. "and part of it splintered into your arm and fucked it up."
Ouch. "Shit. I'd say sorry about the broom, but I'm not."
"You should be."
"You should've given me one when you dished them out to the team."
"You don't deserve one."
"Clearly I do; I'm a better player than you."
"No you're not." He snapped.
"Yes, I am." You replied.
"No, you're no-"
"Okay dickhead," You interrupted him, trying not to laugh. "this is how we got in this situation to begin with."
"Oh." He realised, laughing a little, before realising and returning back to his angst.
You both lied back on your extremely uncomfortable beds, doing your best to ignore the pain in your shoulder as you stared at the ceiling; how thrilling.
Maple came to see you a few times while you were hold up in the nurses office, being 'treated' (a.k.a force-fed that disgusting drink which apparently healed you faster), taking you books to read, and telling you about the recent drama. Draco was also stuck there, having suffered a broken ankle when he crashed his broom, and Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't leave him alone, evidently getting on his nerves every time they took a breath.
You were released three days later, given a precautionary warning to avoid quiddich for a week while your arm fully healed. Draco was given the same advice; whether he took it or not was up to him, you didn't care. One thing you still weren't sure about was why he saved you in the first place—if he hadn't he'd get to keep his place as seeker, and probably wouldn't suffer consequences for letting a fellow student plummet to their death, all thanks to daddy dearest. You chose to ignore the question, pushing it to the back of your mind as you focused on studying—you could make up for a lot while quiddich practice was out of the question.