The bruise was a dark, spreading bloom of violet and angry red beneath the skin of her shoulder. It pulsed with every beat of her heart, a rhythmic throb of heat that made her vision swim. The corridor was too bright, the torches flickering with a ferocity that seemed to mock the way her breath hitched in her throat. She felt the dampness of the spell's impact soaking into the fine silk of her robes, a heavy, wet sensation that clung to her skin. Everything felt too loud, from the frantic scuffle of feet to the sharp, jagged sounds of the crowd gathering behind her.
"Draconia!"
Harry's voice was a roar in her ears, a desperate, jagged thing that tore through the sudden tumult. He was moving toward her, his face a mask of panicked confusion, his eyes wide and searching. He had been the target of the hex, the jagged line of light meant to split the air between them, but she had stepped into the path of it without a conscious thought. The spell had struck her instead, a blunt force of magic that had knocked the air from her lungs and left her reeling.
"Stay back, Potter," she snapped, though the command lacked its usual sharp edge. Her voice was thin, brittle, and she hated how much she was trembling.
"You took it," he said, reaching out to grab her arm. His fingers were warm against the chill of her skin, and the touch made her wince. "It was meant for me. You just stood there and took it."
"I did not 'take' anything," she lied, her teeth gritting against a fresh wave of nausea. "I simply moved. It is a matter of positioning, nothing more."
"You're bleeding," he insisted, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at the dark smear spreading across her sleeve.
The blood was a deep, visceral crimson, standing out starkly against the forest green of her Slytherin robes. It looked wrong, a violent intrusion of color upon her dignity. She could feel the warmth of it trickling down her arm, a slow, sticky trail that felt like a brand. The noise of the corridor was deafening now, a cacophony of whispers and gasps from the students who had witnessed the collision.
"It is a scratch," she muttered, trying to pull her arm away from him, but her muscles refused to obey. Her wand arm felt heavy, a useless weight of lead and fire. The magic had not just hit her flesh; it had bruised the very essence of the limb, a dull, aching ache that radiated from her shoulder down to her fingertips.
"It is not a scratch, Draconia," a girl's voice cried out from the periphery. It was the girl who had cast the hex, a sharp, biting sound that cut through the confusion. "It was a glancing blow. It should not be bleeding like that."
"Be quiet, Greta," Harry snapped, his eyes never leaving Draconia's face. He looked terrified, as if he were watching a star collapse in real time. "Does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts."
"Everything hurts, you idiot," she whispered, the honesty slipping out before she could clamp her lips shut. The fatigue was beginning to settle into her bones, a heavy, suffocating blanket of exhaustion. "It is a nuisance. A temporary, irritating nuisance."
"You're pale as a ghost," he said, his hand moving to her waist to steady her as her knees buckled slightly. "We need to get you to Madam Pomfrey. Now."
"I am fine," she insisted, though the world was tilting on its axis. The stone walls of the corridor seemed to lean inward, closing the space around her until the air felt too thin to breathe. "I do not need to be coddled like a wounded kneazle. It was a simple spell. A poorly aimed one, at that."
"It was a nasty one," Harry argued, his brow furrowed in a deep, pained line. "The way the light hit you... it looked like it tore through the fabric."
"The fabric is ruined," she said, her voice rising in pitch as the irritation began to override the pain. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood out of enchanted silk? It is a disgrace."
He didn't seem to hear her, or perhaps he was just too consumed by the sight of her lurching toward the floor to care about her wardrobe. He wrapped an arm around her, his body a solid, warm anchor in the swirling chaos of the hallway. She felt the friction of his robes against her side, the roughness of his grip, and the sheer, unadulterated weight of him. She hated that she needed him to hold her up, hated the way his scent—something like woodsmoke and rain—filled her senses.
"Walk, Draconia. Just keep walking," he commanded, his voice low and urgent.
"Do not tell me what to do," she hissed, but she leaned into him, her head drooping toward his shoulder.
The walk to the hospital wing felt like a marathon through thick mud. Every step sent a fresh jolt of agony through her shoulder, a sharp, jagged sensation that made her lungs seize. The corridor felt endless, a gauntlet of staring eyes and hushed murmurs that seemed to follow them like a trail of breadcrumbs. She could feel the eyes of the onlookers, the judgmental glares of the Slytherins who saw her weakness, and the frantic, worried stares of the Gryffindors.
"You're being too loud," she complained, though she was the one stumbling. "The noise is making my head spin."
"You're the one who's wounded," Harry countered, his grip tightening on her waist. "Just keep your eyes on the end of the hall. We're almost there."
"I am not wounded," she lied again, her voice a ragged shadow of itself. "I am merely... disoriented."
The noise of the footsteps, the chatter of the students, and the distant clatter of a dropped book converged into a single, overwhelming roar in her ears. Her vision began to fray at the edges, the bright, golden light of the torches turning into long, distorted streaks of yellow. The feeling of the blood soaking into her sleeve became a heavy, oppressive weight, a wetness that felt far too large for the wound it came from.
"It's not just a bruise," Harry muttered, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well. "It's a deep, dark purple. It's spreading, Draconia."
"It is aesthetics, Potter," she gasped, the word 'aesthetics' feeling clumsy and heavy in her mouth. "The color... is quite dramatic."
She felt a sudden, sharp lurch in her stomach, a wave of nausea that climbed up her throat. The sensation of the floor beneath her feet became uncertain, as if the stone itself were turning to liquid. The heat of the corridor, the frantic energy of the crowd, and the unrelenting throb in her arm all merged into a singular, suffocating pressure. She felt the weight of her own body becoming too much to bear, a burden of bone and blood that her spirit could no longer carry.
"Draconia? Stay with me," Harry's voice called out, sounding far away and panicked. "Don't you dare close your eyes."
"I am... quite busy..." she started to say, her voice a mere thread of sound.
She was furious about the mess on her robes and unconscious by the next paragraph.