Clara didn't get out of bed at the same time as the rest of her roommates — didn't even stir as they got themselves ready for the day and chatted amongst themselves — and to her surprise and also mild disappointment, they took very little notice of the fact that she was still asleep either.
She groggily sat upright at about 11am. Her condition, both physically and mentally, was just as expected. About once a year, she tended to develop something that needed a quick remedy. She wiped her nose against the back of her hand and sagged back against her pillows, hoping that a small shift in position would help to soothe the throbbing in her head.
The second time she woke up, she felt worse than the first. She was sticky and hot, unhelped by Lilia nuzzling incredibly close to her face. The cat purred noisily and rubbed her nose against her forehead, but Clara had the feeling that wasn't what had woken her up.
"Malfoy's downstairs," Susan Bones murmured, with a hand on her shoulder gently shaking her awake. Clara attempted to not react. "He told me to tell you he'll come up here and drag you to the library himself if you don't get up. To tell you the truth, I don't think he can do that, but he seems determined."
Clara grunted in response. Regardless of however vague and careless the gesture was, at least it was enough to satisfy Susan. It bought her a few minutes to get up and get ready before she'd inevitably be pestered by someone else.
Lilia clearly wasn't happy that her personal heater had moved to get up. She shot Clara a dirty look and padded across the room towards a patch of sunlight next to Hannah's bed. Clara tried to ignore her cat's arrogance and began to get dressed, although she couldn't deny the strange cross-eyed sensation she was experiencing whenever she tried to focus too hard on anything.
The crunchiest of coughs left her mouth as she reached the foot of the stairs and entered the common room. Any of her housemates who were sitting around studying immediately cringed away at the sound of it. Malfoy did the same — he was waiting uncomfortably in the doorway, Justin's lingering presence nearby suggesting that he'd been the one to let the Slytherin inside.
Malfoy craned his neck away and blinked as she coughed again. "I've seen corpses with more life in their eyes than you," he remarked.
She hadn't tested her voice yet. "Good morning," she croaked quietly. Now she was starting to regret taking the risk of avoiding a trip to Madam Pomfrey and hiding away in bed.
She countered his impatient look with a blank stare of her own. She couldn't understand why he was looking at her so expectantly, or why he seemed to double whenever she stared at him for too long.
"Are you going to put some shoes on?" Malfoy eventually suggested. "And bring your Potions stuff?"
Clara nodded and fainted less than a second later.
Cold liquid seeped through her ear canal, up her nose, and finally in her eyes. Those final droplets were enough to fill her with some kind of unexplainable buzz of energy, enough for her to consciously be able to open her eyes all the way and begin to sit upright again.
She was very familiar with the hospital wing. It had a smell that wasn't quite sterile, but definitely a little abnormal for any other room in the school. There were only ever really 2 or 3 students in at a time, whether those cases be from a Quidditch injury, a wound sustained from poor practice of magic like splinching in the sixth years' Apparition classes, or just a simple illness that required a quick remedy to send the student on their way again.
"That's the third flu case I've been sent this year," Pomfrey remarked with a laugh. "Probably brought over by one of the other schools, I reckon. Any more and we'll need to start quarantining people."
The woman walked away to tend to someone else — a boy situated a few beds away who was somehow still in his Quidditch uniform, despite the last match being several days ago. Malfoy looked amused, beyond amused really, but not so much by Pomfrey's joke.
"What happened?" Clara cleared her throat which seemed to help with her croakiness even if marginally. "How long was I out for?"
Malfoy frowned in thought and gazed down at his watch. "3 minutes," he informed her. "No, 2 minutes and 24 seconds. It's lucky your common room is so near to the hospital wing, especially when there's a badger as prone to accidents as you."
She'd convinced herself that she couldn't possibly feel more embarrassed than she already had, but now she stood corrected. This had to be one of the most mortifying things she'd ever done, and that included a whole list of events that still made her cringe inside out by even the mere idea of.
As she stood up, she couldn't help but notice Malfoy flit closer, as if prepared to catch her should she once again fall on her behind. He needn't worry — Pomfrey was an excellent healer.
Of course, Pomfrey's healing didn't extend as far as to cure her perpetual two left feet. Standing was easy, as was taking a step, but she'd never been very proficient at walking straight. It was a miracle that Malfoy had been able to grab her by her arm at the last second at all. The action hurt her shoulder a little, but that was nothing compared to the bruising force she would've felt upon colliding with the stone floor.
"I need to put some shoes on before we go to the library," she requested.
Malfoy's eyebrows raised slightly. "You still want to go to the library?"
No, no, no–
"Yes," she responded quietly.
Bemused, he shrugged one shoulder. "Okay then," he agreed. "If you can walk without looking like someone's just Leg-Locked you, I'll get a head start on the project."
Clara nodded. She watched him leave for the library, and only then did she let out a heavy breath and slump back against the bed.
Sundays were always quiet. She had no issue making it from one end of the school to the other without bumping into anyone else. Saturday tended to be the busy day — that was when most of her classmates would meet up and socialise — but on Sunday's, most of the school was nowhere to be seen. In bed, she assumed. Especially as exams and deadlines creeped ever closer.
Clara waited patiently before daring to ascend the stairs from the Hufflepuff dorms. The moving staircases had caught her out one too many times in first and second year, so she'd made a point of learning its every pattern and trying to predict when it would next move — anything to avoid a trip to St Mungo's.
Before continuing onto the next staircase, her gaze slipped around the darkened corridor that provided a little-known shortcut to the Gryffindor Tower. Two people were snogging, so definitely not an uncommon occurrence, but it didn't look as though she was at risk of being spotted. They were hidden quite far behind an old set of armour. She craned her neck further.
Right, library. She almost let herself forget.
Narrowing her eyes at the two female figures in the corridor, she turned on her heel and started towards the library, but she made a mental note to jot that little tidbit of gossip down later. She was very rarely involved in any scandals or rumours herself — other than that rumour last year that she was Sirius Black disguised as a school girl because "she never spoke, and talking would give Black's voice away" — but sometimes it was fun to watch from the sidelines. Sometimes people tended to forget that her quiet nature didn't mean she couldn't still hear and understand conversations around her.
Malfoy was hunched over the same table they'd met at last time. That table had become their regular meeting spot, helped by the fact that it was in close proximity to virtually every book or reference they could need for their ongoing projects. She wordlessly untucked the chair beside him and propped her bag up against the table leg.
"Any later and I would've finished this project and the next."
Malfoy didn't look up, even as Clara startled, an apology almost tumbling out of her mouth. Almost. She didn't dare to apologise after their agreement. She would do anything to stand even a chance at passing her OWLs, chances that were looking very slim at the moment.
The table shuddered as a thick hardback book landed square in front of her. "We need an essay on the basic physical properties of honeywater." Malfoy picked his quill back up and continued to write. "Everything you'll need is on page 287."
Clara nodded and started to reach into her bag for her things. She hadn't unpacked it at all since Friday, so all of her books, her quill and ink, and even her stale water bottle, were still buried somewhere towards the bottom beneath her spare cardigan in case the library got cold. It was easier to pack well and thoroughly rather than flit between her dorm and the rest of the school in a fit of forgetfulness.
"Why didn't you go straight to Madam Pomfrey earlier if you were feeling faint?" Malfoy asked. Judging by his tone, he wasn't asking out of care or concern; plainly confusion.
Clara shrugged. "I was too sleepy," she responded quietly, "but Susan said you threatened to drag me out of bed regardless."
"Not if you were violently ill," he remarked with a short, condescending laugh. "I would've remained a safe quarantine distance from you."
Her gaze narrowed a little. "I wasn't violently ill."
Malfoy's blond eyebrows rose in bemusement. "You looked possessed," he told her. "I was about to summon a crucifix."
Clara shot him with a sidelong glare and resumed her note-taking from the book open in front of her. She didn't appreciate the unpleasant reminder of that morning, nor did she appreciate the tone with which he was describing her frankly dangerous physical state. She muttered under her–
"Beg pardon?" Malfoy was doing a terrible job of holding back his laughter. Contrariwise, Clara was doing an excellent job of not spontaneously combusting in her chair. "What did you say?"
Exhaling deeply through her nose, she trained her eyes on her page, waiting for Malfoy to finally settle down, before quietly responding. "I said, I hope you get possessed."
The mocking snort that followed had her fighting to keep herself collected and calm, a difficult task when her cheeks threatened to turn pink and her palms became clammy with each passing second he spent picking away at her. Was this what normal interaction with her peers was? She was starting to feel like she hadn't been missing out on anything in the first place.
She distracted herself with the work in front of her. To think that this was her final weekend day for the next week, and this was how she was spending it . . .
"My family's found themselves a new house elf," Malfoy said conversationally. "Apparently she's an idiot, but that's like saying the sky is blue."
Clara wasn't sure what she could contribute to the topic. "We don't have a house elf," she responded.
He looked mildly surprised, as if he couldn't fathom that the way he lived wasn't close to the norm. "Not even one?" he verified. "Why not?"
She shrugged. It was easier than awkwardly reminding him that he was an elite in society and most plebs didn't even have a distant relative who owned a house elf, let alone multiple. She knew he didn't really mean anything by it — if anything, watching him wrap his head around more humble ways of living was entertaining.
Clara unrolled a blank parchment and started to copy a diagram out from the book beside her. She tried to keep each detail as tidy as possible; if there was one thing Snape absolutely despised, it was illegible writing. He had been known to fail students on the spot for poor presentation.
"Have you ever successfully made small talk?" Malfoy asked her.
Clara shrugged, confused. "What do you think?"
"Well, with that kind of attitude, now I'm not sure," he retorted. Any trace of amusement unceremoniously died when she didn't react. "This is why you have no friends. It's like you don't even try."
"You don't think I try to make friends?" Clara struggled to mask the hurt in her voice. The best thing she could do was disguise it as mild irritation. "You think I enjoy struggling to even hold eye contact with people?"
She felt bad for snapping as soon as she had. An apology almost slipped out. But then she reminded herself that she technically had nothing to feel bad about. This was the same kind of unhelpful comment that she'd been getting since she was young. She had every right to be frustrated. Her feelings were valid.
Her St Mungo's healer would be so proud of her positive affirmations right now.
Malfoy dropped his quill and sat back. Hearing him shift, she turned her head, curious.
"Go on then," he insisted. He crossed his arms, nodding encouragingly. "You've gotten the hard bit out of the way by arguing. Now try making small talk."
That demand was arguably more annoying than his earlier dismissal of her struggles. Frankly uninterested in indulging him purely for his entertainment, she shrugged and continued to copy the diagram down. There were some symbols she wasn't totally familiar with, but so long as she could get them noted accurately enough for Snape to decipher them, then–
"Anything interesting going on at home?" Malfoy prompted.
Clara exhaled softly through her nose. Clearly he wasn't going to drop it until she gave him a sufficient answer. He probably meant well.
"My mum received a dress robe commission from your mum last week, my niece was born on Tuesday, and Lilia ate an entire bag of cheese crisps while I wasn't looking."
Malfoy stared wordlessly. She took that as confirmation that her response had been adequate and resumed her work.
"That's a lot to unpack," Malfoy remarked. "Congratulations on your niece."
Clara nodded sheepishly. "Thank you."
"But I didn't know you had a sibling," he continued, pressing for more.
"My older brother was a prefect here," she told him.
He hummed, only mildly interested. "Who'd he marry?"
Pureblood tradition involved only conceiving a child after marriage, so she wasn't really surprised by his automatic assumption. It was probably just the way he was raised. She wondered whether Hogwarts had ever housed a pregnant pupil before. Probably not. Surely she would've heard about something like that.
"His girlfriend's name is Freya," Clara explained. "She's a paramedic."
Malfoy was visibly disturbed. "Are you serious?" His voice dropped to a scandalised whisper. "A muggle?"
She nodded, not needing to lower her voice to match his. "She's really nice," she assured him. "My dad thinks she's weird, but my mum likes her."
"But she's a muggle," Malfoy repeated.
"Yes," she confirmed, "she is."
"And your father's a pureblood," he said. She noticed the slow way he was speaking, like this concept was completely novel to him.
"Yes," she said. The discomfort was nauseating, so she was quick to continue. "She took me to a muggle amusement park once. They have these trains called rollercoasters that can travel upside down."
As it turned out, Malfoy couldn't have been less interested in muggle amusement parks and the rides there. She could have engaged in some genuinely pleasant conversation with him about the quicker rides that definitely beat flying a broomstick, the rides that soaked her clothes, not to mention the sickly sweet food.
"My family are good people, Malfoy," Clara said.
Malfoy scoffed. "If they're sleeping around with muggles, they'd better be."
Her quill snapped. The action was involuntary. Ink splattered on her skirt — fortunately so dark in colour that the stain didn't show up. But even if it had, she probably wouldn't have noticed.
"Need a new quill?" he offered dryly.
Clara ignored him. That was new. She hauled her bag onto her lap and produced another quill from inside. The bag fell carelessly onto the floor. She wetted the tip with ink and continued to write. Her handwriting started to morph from cursive into a barely legible scrawl that would give any teacher an aneurysm. For once, she was too annoyed to care.
"Would you marry a muggle?" Malfoy asked her.
Despite knowing that her answer wasn't what he wanted, she responded anyway. "Muggles are just wizards without magic."
Then Malfoy said something that truly made her gape. "Wizards who marry muggles are a waste of space, if you ask me."
Clara kicked her chair out from beneath her, nearly sending it toppling to the floor. She picked up her bag and began to rapidly shove her things inside.
"Well, I didn't," she snapped.
Malfoy huffed. "Davies." He watched her pack up incredulously. "Davies, come on."
She slung her bag on her shoulder and shoved the chair beneath the desk with a grating scrape of the floor. "This is why I don't make small talk," she all but sneered, turning on her heel.
His eye roll was practically audible. "If you're going to argue, could you at least turn around?"
"Why?" she spat, venom in her voice. Her hands were shaking. "So you can remind me of how much of a filthy blood-traitor I am?"
"Davies–"
Clara had never walked so fast and with such intense purpose in her life. With each determined, seething step, she increased her speed, dabbing impatiently at the tears of anguish beneath her eyes with the back of her hand.
{. .}
Author's note: Raging at work IT gave me inspiration. Don't get a job, it ain't worth it xoxo