The white linen of the hospital wing was a blinding, sterile glare that did not suit her. Draconia felt the heavy, rhythmic throb of her wand arm as a dull pulse behind her eyes. She lay perfectly still on the narrow bed, the sheets pulled tight around her waist, feeling the way the air moved in the room. Every time she breathed, the sharp sting of the curse reminded her of the cost of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her robes were gone, replaced by a thin, soft nightshirt that felt far too vulnerable against her skin.
Harry was there, of course. He was always there, even when she tried to push him away with sharp words or a sneer. He sat in a wooden chair near the foot of her bed, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. He looked like he had not slept a wink since the corridor incident. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were slightly crooked on his nose. He was watching the way the light caught the edges of her bandage, his eyes fixed on the white gauze wrapped around her arm.
"You should stop staring, Potter," Draconia murmured, her voice cracking as she spoke. "It is quite rude to gawp at a woman while she is trying to recover."
"You were unconscious for three hours," Harry said, his voice flat and weary. "I wasn't gawping. I was waiting for you to wake up."
"I was not unconscious, I was merely resting my eyes," she lied, though the truth was far more brutal. The hex had hit her with the force of a physical blow, and the exhaustion had claimed her before she could even finish her indignantly spoken protest.
"You fell like a stone," he countered, leaning forward. "The healers had to carry you in. You looked... you looked a mess, Draconia."
"A mess is a generous description for a girl covered in blood and a ruined silk robe," she snapped, though the bite in her tone was softened by the way her lungs ached. "That girl is a menace. To think, a simple hex meant for you, and I am the one who has to pay the price for it."
Harry did not answer immediately. He reached out as if to touch the edge of the bed, then pulled his hand back, his fingers curling into a fist. "It wasn't just a hex. It was a nasty one. It hit your arm and the side of your ribs. If you hadn't stepped in front of me, she would have taken a chunk out of your shoulder."
"I did not do it for you," she insisted, the heat rising in her cheeks. "It was a tactical decision. It would have been more efficient to move you than to let her hit you."
"Right," Harry said, a small, lopsided smile twitching at his lips. "A tactical decision. You’re a terrible liar when you’re drugged on medicinal potions."
"I am not drugged. I am merely highly irritated," she said, closing her eyes to block out the light. The sensation of the healing salves on her skin was cool and slightly viscous. She could feel the invisible threads of magic working to knit the torn tissue back together, a sensation that was both pleasant and deeply annoying.
She heard the soft scuff of footsteps on the stone floor. Madam Pomfrey approached the bed, her expression a mask of professional concentration. The matron moved with a practiced efficiency, her hands moving through the air as she cast a series of diagnostic charms. A soft, golden light flickered over Draconia’s skin, illuminating the pale expanse of her shoulder and the dark, jagged lines of the older scars that lived there.
"You are a stubborn girl, Draconia," Pomfrey said, her voice crisp. "Most would have stayed in bed for two days, but you are already trying to sit up."
"I have things to do," she muttered, feeling the weight of Harry’s gaze as he watched the matron work.
"The only thing you have to do is remain still," the matron commanded, her hands hovering over the bandage on Draconia's arm. "This was a messy spell. It was meant to tear, not just bruise. You are lucky the bone is intact."
"She is always lucky," Harry said, almost under his breath.
Draconia opened one eye to see him watching the matron’s fingers. He was looking at her with a terrifying sort of intensity, as if he were trying to memorize the way she looked when she was broken. It was an invasive feeling, being watched while she was in this state of disrepair. She felt stripped of her defenses, her poise entirely gone.
"It is not luck, Potter," Draconia said, her voice gaining a bit of strength. "It is a matter of timing."
"You're always in the way of things," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave. "The spells, the curses, the things that are supposed to hit me. You always end up in the middle of it."
"Is that a complaint?" she asked, tilting her chin up despite the ache.
"It is an observation," he replied. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed with a fatigue that went deeper than just a lack of sleep. He looked as though he had been carrying the weight of her injuries on his own shoulders.
Madam Pomfrey moved to the side of the bed, her brow furrowed as she inspected the skin near the collarbone. She reached out to adjust the linen, her touch firm and clinical. The movement caused a sharp, stinging sensation to flare through Draconia's chest, making her wince and catch her breath.
"Do not move so much," Pomfrey scolded, though her eyes were kind. "The skin is still sensitive. The magic needs time to settle into the tissue."
"It is difficult to be still when the air feels like it is vibrating," Draconia whispered. She felt a strange sense of displacement, as if she were watching herself from a distance. The pain was a constant, grounding force, a reminder that she was still there, still solid.
"You need to learn to take care of yourself," the matron said, her voice softening as she finished her work. "You are always running into danger as if you are made of iron, but even iron can bend under enough heat."
"I am not made of iron," Draconia said, a flash of her usual defiance returning. "I am quite durable, thank you very much."
Harry watched her, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed. He looked like he wanted to say something, to argue with her, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. The silence in the hospital wing was not empty; it was filled with the heavy, unsaid things that had been building between them for months.
Madam Pomfrey began to gather her supplies, her movements brisk. She stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes scanning the chart before looking back at the girl lying there. She paused, her gaze lingering on the faint, silvery lines that traced the curve of Draconia's ribs, the scars that had nothing to do with the hex from the corridor.
"It is a wonder you have survived this long with such reckless magic," Pomfrey said, her voice low and devoid of its usual professional distance. "The way you carry those old scars suggests you have been quite a frequent target of the Slicing Charm."