𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 |𝐃.𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐫 𝐮 𝐦 𝐨 𝐫 𝐬

"𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬"
-'The Other Side Of The Door' by Taylor Swift

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HEMERA

"You know what, my knee doesn't hurt anymore. I think it clicked right back into place so no need to make a fuss in there," Draco says, hesitantly putting some weight on his supposedly hurt leg to either test his theory or prove it right. "Talk about miracles."

Holding onto his side to keep him balanced with his arm draped over my shoulders for support, I don't know if I should believe him and thank Merlin for sparing my best friend from something like a broken bone or push him to the floor and drag him into the infirmary by the ankles.

Given how the hospital wing is just around the corner, I think his fear of Madam Pomfrey's healing spells kicking in and forcing him to lie is remarkably more convincing than him getting coincidentally miracle-struck. It's not my fault he has a habit of injuring himself over situations even a two-year-old would get out of intact, like going to the bathroom in the middle of the night without walking himself straight into the bedpost and breaking his big toe.

I clench my jaw so tightly that I'm surprised my molars don't crack under the pressure and huff out a sigh as I shrug Draco's arm off my shoulders. Feet planted on the spot, I turn to face him. Not only did he make me half-carry him from the lake to the hospital wing, but he also proceeded to dodge my question about why he was there in the first place.

I let that slide while helping him up from the ground, but I know better than to leave it to my mind to conjure up an answer when he's now standing in front of me.

"What on earth did you think you were doing?"

Confusion carves creases on his skin, making the corrugation of his forehead look troubled. Draco takes a step back and casually leans against one of the stone walls lining the deserted hallway. When silence's reign is as prominent, even the barely audible flow of an exhale is noticeable.

"See, I'm still a little shaken from my tumble. Maybe you should avoid subtexts and be more forward with whatever it is that you want to know."

I fight for composure against the fact that he finds it fit to play dumb. Crossing my arms over my chest, I fist the sleeves of my sweatshirt and let the knotted wool take the hit.

I refuse to play the part of a mama owl and chew his nourishment for him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Nothing shifts in his facade of cluelessness. His eyes search my face and pause when they come across my glare, which I hope is as sharp as its delivery feels. I'm not used to looking at him like I'd take immeasurable pleasure in poking his eye out with a hairpin but I find it hard to host carelessly silly smiles on my lips when Draco made sure my first time hanging out with Lucas turned into this.

Into us standing across from each other in a dim hallway when I could be walking by Lucas' side on our way back to the castle, reveling in the freshly imprinted memory of our afternoon and wishing I owned a time-turner to reassure myself that I could relive it if I ever wished to. Which I certainly would. Probably within the next twenty-one hours; I assume I could use said time to succeed in ridding the surface of my cheeks of its crimson shade before going back for round two.

"I'm afraid I don't." Draco's faux ignorance pokes my patience provokingly and its essence begins to falter in protest, wearily oscillating between indignation and sangfroid like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.