SEA, SWALLOW ME, remus lupin

ochd deug, hangover cures

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
hangover cures

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  SOMEONE FLICKS ON A LAMP. THE sudden onslaught of light sears her eyes, crowbarring through her veil of deep sleep to scald her corneas as if she's deserving of the burn. A pounding headache bites at her brain the more she's hit by awareness, bile surfacing in her throat. She can feel mascara from the night before smudged across her under eyes, a few strands of her matted hair sticking to the remaining lipgloss glued to her lips. There's a cat snoring loudly on one of the neighbouring beds and she smothers her head in her pillow to escape the racket, clinging onto the dregs of sleep for as long as possible. The moment of peace is shattered when that someone from before lands on her bed with one hand hidden behind their back, proceeding to shake her shoulder violently with the free one.

"Five more minutes," she murmurs blearily, trying to dissuade whoever it is with a limp flick of her wrist, her bangles jingling sadly.

"Wake up, love," a soft voice croons. It harshens. "No, seriously, wake up! It's nearly quarter to six. Dinner soon."

  "Nearly what?" She sits up and instantly regrets it, rubbing furiously her temples. "How could you let me sleep in for that long?"

  Cove frantically peels her eyes open to see Fallon perched on the edge of her bed, reading the face of her watch as it ticks away with intense focus. She would've promptly hopped out of bed and started getting ready if her body permitted it, but she gets up too quickly and black spots start dancing in her vision. Her head sinks back against her pillow, nausea starting to overcome her.

"You were already hibernating by the time I'd woken up," Fallon says defensively. "This is the first breakthrough of the evening. You've been conked out all day. We weren't even sure if you were still alive for an hour or two."

  "Eugh," she complains, finding the strength to prop herself back up against her headboard. "What's that smell?

  Fallon procures a beaker full of a smoking potion that looks like warm sludge with burned herbs scattered all through it, and that's putting it nicely. There's a split second where she swears that sparks go flying off of it, the liquid bubbling and squirming in the accelerando tempo of a pulse point. Is it alive? If it is, it seems to be begging for the sweet release of death. It vaguely smells of orange juice, but mostly it just reeks of a rubbish heap that's been set on fire, or a beached whale with citrusy undertones. Cove puts her hands up to shield her nose, her acute sense of smell being more of a burden than a virtue in times like these. She starts trying to kick Fallon away with the single slipper on her foot.

  "I'm actually gonna boak, get that away from me—"

  "It'll help."

  "What's even in that? It's fucking vile. Nothing should smell or look that bogging."

  "If I told you, you wouldn't drink it."

  "That's not very comforting."

  "It's only a hangover cure. It won't kill you."

  "I beg to differ. Are you sure you brewed it correctly?"

  "Not really. Drink it! If you don't, I'm definitely not the one that'll be cleaning up after you when you're sick everywhere."