"I'm going to fucking ruin you."
-
The Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, Harry Potter is dead. Muggleborns are slaughtered. Halfblood's are shoved into imprisonment, conditioned to alter their beliefs and dictated to worship Purebloods.
Y/N Y...
I recall the wails of terror, death, and torture. When the sun dips to another region and my head slams onto a pillow, the subtleties of the final battle tear between the crevices of my brain.
Harry's decapitated head reflected as a symbol that we have failed, that the scenes following the occasion shan't be bright, we shall no longer be happy.
The battlefield is all my mind can picture whilst striding past the patients in this hospital.
Vance's procedure ended one hour within his arrival, the healer only neglected to inform me. She concluded it was for my benefit to alert me when he was cautious.
Draco practically shouted at her, telling her how unprofessional and amateurish it was to leave me crying in the waiting room when Vance was in a good condition.
I have paced, striding past his door fifteen times in the last ten minutes, debating how I should reflect my sorrow. He refrains from noticing, his eyes are a daze and blink slowly in a manner where it perceives as he is doused, tired.
I watch as his facial highlights shadow in the hospital lighting, I noticed the leisure rising and falling of his hefty shoulders.
"Y/N."
Fuck. He is not as drowsy as I previously suspected he was.
Peering my head through the thick wooden entryway, I intensely observe for a symbol of outrage, frustration, or irritation. "Yes?"
"Come here," he gestures his hands and I do, I leisurely pace my feet to the side of his bed, cautious to be aware of my environmental factors. "You have walked past my door so many times, it's giving me a headache."
I remain quiet, endeavoring to arrange my expressions of conciliatory sentiment. "Earlier— I didn't mean what I said. I don't hate you, I said it out of anger. It was a mistake not to take it back immediat—"
"—Can I give you my explanation?"
"Yes, of course."
A lock of his black hair droops to his eye lid. Brushing it off with the utilization of the tip of his fingers, he clears his throat. "It was one time— your second day in that blighting old cell. I just wanted to see you— after watching you for four years it felt strange to be without you for two days."
