Surprise! Stumbled across this fic (which, until about five minutes ago, was unfinished) whilst procrastinating and putting off doing an assignment. Decided to upload it. Hopefully the next instalment of The Birthday Present will be up shortly. And by shortly i mean in the next month. Or two.
This one's very rough and takes a while to get into sorry. Also, I don't know if the apparation thing I've described at the start is even possible. Let's pretend it is, ok? After all, we're talking about magic here. No flames about that please - I have warned you. Thanks :)
Again, attempted to be funny, probably failed. But hey! If you don't practice you won't get better right?
Disclaimer: All names you recognise belong to Miss. Rowling. Those you don't belong to me :)
He knew as soon as Pickle hit it that it wasn't going to end well. It was a miracle he even managed to connect the baton with the damn thing in the first place – Pickle himself looked stunned at the velocity at which it went spinning away. It was hard, fast, and heading straight for the gray and red blur speeding towards the goals.
Albus Potter watched, powerless to help in any way, as a very angry bludger hit Rose Weasley hard on the side of the head. Her body went limp immediately and the quaffle fell from her hands as she was thrown violently from her broom, hurtling dangerously close to the stands.
There was the unmistakable sound of someone apparating from somewhere in the Stadium and before anyone could really comprehend what had happened, a white-haired, black-cloaked body appeared out of thin air at the front of the stands Rose was hurtling towards and caught her before disappearing again. With another resounding 'bang', Scorpius Malfoy appeared crouched on the ground of the Quidditch pitch near the stand-by medical crew, Rose clutched in his arms, her head bleeding badly and neither one of them looking as if they were breathing.
Well, Albus thought momentarily, Someone's got some explaining to do.
And then the entire stadium exploded into hysteria.
The first thought that comes to her mind is about bunny slippers.
She thinks it's strange that people would take something as cute and adorable as bunnies and make slippers out of them. Doesn't that imply you've killed a pair of identical bunnies – probably identical twin bunnies – for the sake of having something comfy to adorn your feet? Think of the pain and suffering their parents would have gone through; two of their four hundred children sacrificed for fashion. It's just not fair.
She thinks that people should make Dementor slippers instead of bunny slippers. That way people could wear them around insinuating that they killed two Dementors for the simple purpose of making comfortable footwear out of them. That would be badass – killing Dementors is badass. Killing bunnies is just cruel.
She stops for a moment and tries to think of how one would go about killing a Dementor when a completely unrelated, but all together more worrying, thought drifts through her blissfully free mind.
Where am I?
She thinks for a moment. Wherever she is, its dark. Unnaturally so. She can't see a damn thing. It's like her eyes aren't working.
That's probably because they're not open.
She's obviously been sleeping. She likes sleeping, but she doesn't think she's slept enough because she's incredibly tired. Her entire body feels heavy even though she's not trying to move it. And achy. In fact it's more than achy. She's sore everywhere. The pain lies over her like a blanket, simultaneously keeping her hot and cold in an infuriatingly painful mix of sensation. Whilst most of her body is engulfed in a dull throbbing ache, her right leg is experiencing an odd mix of burning and stabbed all at once and her face – Oh Merlin her face – she doesn't think she can move it. Surely a face isn't supposed to feel like this. She can't feel most of it – she can't sense what expression she's making if any, and most of it is taken over by a tight pulling sensation that is all kinds of odd. Its like her skin isn't big enough to cover it all.
Swollen, she thinks briefly, my face is swollen.
She doesn't like it. Swollen doesn't ever mean good things. One doesn't get a swollen face because they've been taking care of it and keeping it happy. People get swollen faces when things go wrong, when they do something to upset their face. Like an allergic reaction or getting in a fight – two things that often lead to upset, swollen faces. She tries to remember what she did to upset her face but she can't seem to remember.
Come on, think Rrrr….
She stops worrying about her face to focus on something much more important; much more frightening.
What's my name?
She knows she has a name – everyone has a name, she has to have one too. She can remember it as well. It's right there on the tip of her tongue. It starts with R. Its short, to the point – there's no messing about when it comes to her name. Its just plain old straight forward Rrrrrr…..
Her name is Rose. Of course her name is Rose! She is most certainly Rose. Rose…..
Ok so she can't remember her last name at present but that's ok; her first name is Rose so at least she could introduce herself to people now.
Hello. I am Rose, like the flower, but instead of petals I have a swollen head.
That sounds like a good solid introduction. Rose doesn't think she'll be talking to anyone for a while though, especially as she can't feel most of her face. She tries to think of what she was thinking before but can't seem to remember. She's too tired to remember. She decides she'd going to go back to sleep and hope that when she wakes up nothing hurts anymore and her face isn't upset and puffy.
That's when another strange thought hits her.
This isn't my bed.
Its much too hard, and the blankets too starchy, and the pillows too flat to be her bed. She can't exactly remember what her bed looks like, or where it is, but she knows this bed is most certainly not hers. And she doesn't like it. The main reason she doesn't like it is because it's missing her most valuable sleeping accessory.
This bed is missing her Man-Pillow.
She loves her Man-Pillow; she remembers the feel of him fondly. He has long arms that he wraps around her when she sleeps and keeps her warm. He holds her close to his solid chest and lets his breath pass over her hair softly. Her Man-Pillow would entangle his legs with hers and make her feel safe and secure and undeniably loved. She loves her Man-Pillow and she realizes, now that he's notably absent, that she can't sleep without him. Especially not in a bed as uncomfortable as this one. This just won't do. Rose is about to call out for her Man-Pillow when she realizes she can't exactly remember his name. She's sure he has a name. All Man-Pillows have names, so hers must have one too. But she cannot for the life of her remember what it is. Something alluring, something noble, something….Man-Pillowish. Not only does she not remember what she's supposed to call her Man-Pillow, but she also can't seem to think of what he looks like. She remembers the feel of him – oh Merlin does she ever – but she can't put a face or a name to her Man-Pillow. In fact she can't put anything to him at all really; she can't remember how old he is, or what colour his hair is, or what his eyes look like. It's all a bit worrying.
That's when she hears them.
There's voices surrounding her getting louder and louder the more attention she pays them. They're deep voices, male voices.
Excellent, Rose thinks gleefully, one of them is bound to be my Man-Pillow.
Assuming she'd recognize him on sight and desperate to get back to a peaceful sleep, Rose opens her eyes. Or at least she attempts to. She tries really hard. And just can't seem to do anything. She tries again. Still nothing. Now this just won't do – she needs her Man-Pillow to get some sleep, and she needs her eyes to find her Man-Pillow. Summoning all the energy hiding in her body, Rose forces her eyelids to part. She succeeds. Kind of.
Rose is able to force one of her eyes open – the one on the side of her face that felt upset and swollen remained shut. She doesn't think that's a good thing, but chooses to think about that later after she's found her Man-Pillow and had some sleep.
The room she's in is bright. Unnaturally so. It only reinforces the fact that she isn't in her bed – there was no way in hell that Rose would ever voluntarily be in a room this bright. She squints and blinks her one eye a couple of times to get used to the light. It's rude. That's what the light is. Rude. It's so rude and loud that she's struggling to hear over it. She still hears the voice, but the words are indistinguishable. She's realizes that her difficulty hearing is probably due to the same thing that's making her face feel fuzzy, because she can't feel her ears either.
Can she ever feel her ears?
Now that's a thought.
She tries her best to think of any memory she has of being aware of any kind of sensation in her ears. She could feel her ears when she got them pierced but she's not sure if that really counts. She can feel her bones aching now, but she can't really feel them when they don't hurt. Maybe its normal she can't feel her ears.
A shout from one of the men in the room pulls her attention back to the task at hand – finding her Man-Pillow. She glances around the room as much as she can without moving her head and only one eye to see out of. After several long seconds she calculates that there are five men standing around her bed. Five potential Man-Pillows. She sizes each one up to try and find the solution to her sleep problems.
The first one she focuses on is a tall man, older than her by a number of years she's sure. His red hair is glowing almost as bright as his face as he shouts something at the man standing across from him. He's in a raggedy old knitted orange jumper than has something written on it that she can't make out, and he's giving off furious vibes. There's something in the back of her head – a part that's not aching and throbbing – that tells her she loves him. But at the same time, she doesn't. Rose is fairly sure he's not her man pillow.
She follows the man's arm to where he's pointing at someone towards the rear of the bed. This man's dressed very strangely indeed. He's wearing some kind very fancy robes that are bright orange, with large brown guards on his forearms. And he's holding a broomstick.
Quidditch, a voice in the back of her head tells her. Quidditch? It's a strange word and Rose might even try to say it was her face not as fuzzy and stingy as it was. Instead she just thinks about it and thinks of how it would sound to say.
She didn't think it made any type of sense. Why would a quid itch? Was a quid capable of picking up a questionable rash? Would it start sprouting red spots? Did one get rid of it with a broom? It all seemed very odd. Rose wondered if that little voice in the back of her head was to be trusted.
She focused once more on the man at the foot of her bed and moved past his questionable choice of clothing. She saw his face – shocked and terrified as he apologized profusely to the older man with red flaming hair. He seemed to flinch every so often as he sprouted apologies from his mouth.
"I'm sorry Mr. Weasley! I really didn't mean –"
The red head shouts and draws Rose's attention back to him.
"You didn't mean to put my daughter in hospital?!"
His daughter? Hospital?
Now it makes a bit more sense. Yes, yes, yes! Weasley. That was her name! She was a Weasley. That seemed to hold an incredible amount of significance. As if being 'A Weasley' meant she was an entirely different breed to the rest of the people in the room. Except, of course, the red head. Her father.
His name started with R. Just like hers. R. R. R. R. She was Rose and he was Rrrrrr….?
Nope, she couldn't pull the first name. All she knew was that he was her dad, and he was a Weasley, which made her a Weasley, and that made them special. Right. Check. She was a special Weasley. And the terrified orange man wasn't a Weasley nor was he special. Ok. Well if he wasn't special he clearly wasn't her Man-Pillow. Because Rose knew her Man-Pillow was special.
She moved past the strange orange man to a crazy haired be-speckled boy standing beside him, his arms held out as if trying to fend off her dad. His eyes were cautious and his tone was coaxing yet stern. He seemed about her age, his face was quite handsome but also…not quite right. Maybe it was a glasses? She couldn't quite tell, but the boy looked a little odd. Maybe it was his hair? Yes, that was it, she thought bemusedly, his hair was all types of crazy and it didn't match his placid face and soft eyes. His appearance was all kinds of contradictory. Also, he didn't look like she remembered her Man-Pillow to feel. Her Man-Pillow is solid and comforting. Secure. This boy doesn't look that. He's too wiry, too dainty to be her man pillow. His limbs are long and his eyes are kind but he's not her Man-Pillow. He looks nice though, and there's a warming in her heart that tells her he's special to her. There's a voice again that tells her she loves him. But she doesn't, just like her father. Maybe he's another relative? But not her brother. She doesn't imagine he'd be her brother. He speaks and she's surprised at the depth of his voice considering he's such a skinny looking guy.
"Now just calm down Uncle Ron…"
Ron! That's her father's name! And he's the crazy-haired boy's uncle. Which makes him her cousin. Right. That makes sense. He looks like good cousin material. Terrible Man-Pillow material, but good cousin material.
"I'm sure Dempsey didn't intentionally hurt Rose."
Rose. Yes, that was her, she knew that. And apparently the strangely dressed man was Dempsey.
Dempsey. That name didn't ring too many bells. There was no voice for Dempsey. All that flittered through her mind was that his name wasn't very alluring – it sounded like a word one would use to describe bad weather surrounding a swamp.
"How's it look out there, Paul?"
"Looks fairly Dempsey, proceed with caution."
Yes, Dempsey was a strange name. Rose decided, based entirely on the fact that his name was Dempsey, this man was not to be trusted. One couldn't trust someone with a name that sounded like an adjective used to describe a suspicious swamp. She moved past him to the man standing next to her, opposite her father.
He's not as tall as the red head, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in width. Rose is sure his shoulders are doubled the standard norm, and his face is unusually chiseled – like it is actually made of stone. He looks, in Rose's opinion, like a brick.
His hair is windswept and he has very odd eyes. They don't look quite right. They're too...too big? A bit large for a man with such small features. Maybe his eyes are normal size and it's just the rest of his face that's abnormally small? His button nose is quite normal, apart from the fact it looks like its been broken once or thrice, and his mouth is nothing noteworthy, but his eyes. Whatever it is, it just makes him look a bit...buggy. He's a buggy brick. Not very attractive. But he has an aura. Maybe it comes naturally to a man with shoulders so wide. Maybe all man-bricks have that kind of aura; the kind that says 'I could run through solid stone, therefore I am important'. Rose watches as he opens his unremarkable mouth and speaks in a voice so deep she thinks he could double as a fog horn.
"It doesn't matter if it was intentional,"
This man sounds diplomatic.
"It still ended with Rose – my dearest Rose – in hospital."
His dearest Rose? That sounded an awful lot like a claim. It sounded like much more than a strictly friendly term of endearment. That sounded like he was her boyfriend. Rose didn't think he looked like her boyfriend. In fact she wasn't sure if she even had a boyfriend. All she knew was that she had a Man-Pillow which she needed desperately right now and this buggy brick most certainly was not her Man-Pillow. There's no voice in the back of her head that says he's important, no sweet ache that says she misses him. There's a niggling but it's not a happy one. There's something about him that Rose doesn't like but she can't remember what it is. She watches as he glares at the orange-robed man and points one of his fingers that Rose swears is the size of a sausage at him.
"Don't think I won't be recommending you for indefinite suspension at the tribunal, Pickle."
Pickle? Dempsey's last name is Pickle? Well he most certainly wasn't to be trusted. The be-speckled, crazy haired boy rolls his eyes and groans at the buggy-brick.
"Lay off the dramatics Maximilian –"
Maximilian. It's a strong name. A leader's name. A dependable name.
It's a brick's name, not a Man-Pillow's name.
"There's no press round here; you don't have to pretend you care about her."
There's malice in the voice of the kind looking boy and it confuses her. He doesn't look like someone who often speaks with malice. Rose trusts the crazy haired boy – her cousin – and if he doesn't like this Maximilian fellow than she doesn't think she does either.
"Me and Rose are involved, Albus."
ALBUS! That's the be-speckled boy's name! Yes, yes, of course! She remembers Albus now. She likes Albus.
A. L. Bus.
Rose thinks Albus (Allll. Booos) has a funny name. Much funnier than Maximilian. The brick continues to speak.
"Of course I care about her. Besides, she's the best chaser I have and I need her against the Harpies next round."
Rose is convinced he's started to talk a different language – what on earth were Harpies and what, exactly, did she chase? – and doesn't like want to be a part of any conversation in a language she can't speak. Her Man-Pillow would never speak a language she didn't understand.
Rose looks away from the stocky 'supposed-boyfriend-but-definitely-not-Man-Pillow' Maximilian and focuses on the last man in the room. He's hidden behind the others, tucked away in the back corner. In fact Rose isn't even sure if the others know he's there.
He is tall and dressed impeccably in comparison to the others – he's in expensive-looking black robes that are buttoned all the way up his neck, one of his gloved hands clutching an equally black umbrella with an equally expensive-looking silver hook at the end, and he has a silver chain hanging from his neck that looks a great deal older than the man who wears it. He's an aristocrat, she thinks, and an entirely snotty-looking one at that. His shoulders are wider than the crazy-haired boy's, but not as wide as the buggy brick (not that that's difficult), his white blonde hair is combed back from his face, and his joyless gray eyes are focused on the side of her head that she can't feel. His jaw is set tightly and, from as far as Rose can see, he isn't breathing. He is silent and motionless – if one didn't know better they may think him a ghost. His face is attractive, stunningly so, though it would have been more evident had he not looked so thoroughly petrified. Overall, the man is cold. However, despite the lack of warmth he radiated or the fact that he looked as pale as the bed sheets she was wrapped in, Rose recognized him instantly.
That was him.
There was a flutter in her heart and a warming in her stomach as she stared at him – apparently her heart and stomach remembered him even if her head didn't, and they appeared to think very highly of him. There was a voice in the back of her mind, the one that she had been doubtful of up until now, that grew from a whisper to shout – This one, it said, This is him. He was it; he was hers. And she was his. He was her Man-Pillow and she wanted him right here so she could go back to sleep.
Just as Rose was about to demand he come and wrap himself around her, an olive-skinned woman wearing bright green robes with a face of thunder came bustling into the room clutching a clipboard.
"I thought I told you all to wait outside," she said sternly, silencing the argument the four non-Man-Pillows were having for a few moments before they turned their attentions to her.
"She is my daughter and I will not wait outside for –"
"I just wanted to see if she was alright!"
"I'm her partner, I won't leave her side!"
"Cut the bullshit, Fleetwood – you're not convincing anyone here."
"Gentlemen!" she silenced them with a glare "I do not appreciate being ignored and –"
She turns to look at the petrified blonde who's still staring at Rose's head and gives him a look that suggests she is not pleased to see him.
"Mr. Malfoy," she says with displeasure. Rose recognizes the name, "I believe you were told to wait at the front desk – there are Stadium officials, amongst others, that need to speak to you."
Rose looks at the blonde – Malfoy, the Man-Pillow – and finds him still staring at her. Malfoy doesn't seem right. It sounds angry. This man isn't angry. He's illustrious and important and terrified. But he's not angry.
Her father's newly impassioned yelling interrupts her thoughts.
"MALFOY!" he screams, face red and eyes wide, "What the hell are you doing here?!"
Man-Pillow remains silent and continues to stare at her. There's a turning in her stomach that is all together unpleasant as her heart begins to ache just as badly as her bones. He was upset; he was hurt. She didn't like it when Man-Pillow was upset because it made her upset too. Rose is fairly sure that the best thing to fix all of this was for her Man-Pillow to come over here, wrap his arms around her and go to sleep with her. Sleep solved everything. She wants to tell him such when all the others start talking again.
"Mr. Malfoy," the nurse speaks again, "I'm going to have to ask you to go back to the front desk."
Man-Pillow doesn't do anything – he doesn't speak and he doesn't breathe, he just keeps staring at her face. There's something in his eyes that she notices now – they're not cold, they're scared. It unsettles her. She doesn't like Man-Pillow looking scared. She reaches an arm out towards him, but finds she can only manage to lift it a few inches off the bed.
That gets everyone's attention.
"Rose!" her father exclaims loudly and seems to have completely forgotten he was yelling at her Man-Pillow. He rushes back up to be right above her head and stares at her with weird mix of terror and relief evident in her eyes.
"Rosie! Can you hear me?"
Then the oddly dressed man in orange chimes in.
"Weasley? Oh thank Merlin and all that is magical! I didn't mean it – I swear!"
Then Albus, dearest loveliest Albus with the very funny name comes into view behind her father.
"Rose! You would not believe the photo they got for the front page!"
Then the buggy brick, who somehow is the last to notice her movement despite the fact he's standing right next to her, finds her eyes (or at least the one she can see out of) and smiles.
"Rose, love –"
Rose thinks she sees Man-Pillow move for the first time since she opened her eyes – she swears she saw him flinch when the brick called her 'love'.
"Don't worry, I'm here for you."
Rose doesn't say anything to any of them though. She's still staring at Malfoy, her Man-Pillow, whose eyes have finally moved from the side of her head to meet her own. He still looks terrified, but Rose feels marginally better when she sees him draw in a deep breath. Then the lady in the bright green robe forces her way in front of the buggy-brick Maximilian (she has quite the elbow to be able to move him) and smiles down at her with practiced ease.
"Miss. Weasley, can you hear me?"
Rose wants to nod but realizes that it's a lot harder than she prepared herself for (seriously, is her head even attached to the rest of her body?) so instead she speaks.
Rose recognizes that's not exactly the 'yes' she was hoping to produce, but the lovely olive-skinned woman seems to understand anyway seeing as her smile widened.
"Good. My name is Mediwitch Willowood,"
Mediwitch was an odd first name. Her parents obviously had her life planned when she was still a fetus.
"Now, do you remember the Quiddtich game today?"
There's that damn Quidditch again. No she didn't remember the game today – she couldn't remember a game ever. She guesses Mediwitch assumes as much from her silence.
"Well you had an accident," the lady's voice has grown soft and delicate and Rose gets the feeling its because she's about to get some bad news, "And Mr. Pickle over there hit a bludger at you."
"Not at you!" Dempsey interrupted desperately as her father scowled at him once more, "Just…kinda…towards you. I didn't mean-!"
"The point is," the olive-skinned lady shot a glare of her own at Mr. Pickle which silenced him immediately, "You've had a knock to the head, dear. Quite a serious one. Do you understand?"
Yes she understood – she got bumped on the head by whatever the hell a bludger was that was aimed at her by Pickle, which explained why her father was so mad at him.
Well that was closer to yes. Mediwitch Willowood smiled sympathetically before Albus called out with a large smile.
"You went green, Rose!" he insisted eagerly, "All green and floppy!"
"Yes, thank-you Mr. Potter," the woman did not sound grateful for Albus' input at all, "See you were knocked clear off your broom by the bludger…"
Seriously, what the hell was a Bludger?
"Had it not been for Mr. Malfoy's highly illegal not to mention dangerous actions that several people want to question him about out at the front desk," she glares at him sideways before turning back to Rose, "You would have careened into a stand full of people. Luckily he…caught you."
Her Man-Pillow had caught her – he had cushioned her fall. Oh she loved her Man-Pillow.
"However, due to the severity of your injury," she glances at Malfoy once more, "Combined with the highly unstable apparation that took place directly afterwards, it will take a considerable amount of time to heal your head completely."
"How much time?" the brick interrupted frantically, "Only a couple of days right?"
"It's a very serious injury, Mr. Fleetwood – it may be a number of weeks before the swelling goes down completely."
"But we've got the Harpies next round!" he exclaimed, more terrified now than he had been since Rose had awoken. Albus snorted indignantly and her father let out a kind of growl crossed with a sigh. It is an odd and utterly dark combination.
Mediwitch Willowood rolls her eyes at him and turns back to look down at Rose whom she smiles at warmly once more. Rose feels she can trust her, so she asks her what is going through her head. Thankfully her mouth and vocal chords are capable of producing sounds that are clear enough to be considered speech.
"What's a bludger?"
Silence encases the room. Surprisingly, Man-Brick is the first to speak. Or at least he is first to make a noise.
"Gaaruagh!" he groans and puts his head in his hands, looking truly distressed for the first time.
Ron Weasley looks confused and worried, looking between Rose and Mediwitch at a rate that is almost comical. In fact Rose thinks it quite humorous indeed. She may have even giggled had she been able to move her face that much. Albus groans, Man-Pillow turns a paler shade of white, and Dempsey Pickle takes the opportunity to politely excuse himself to be sick in the men's washroom down the hall.
Mediwitch nods slowly and takes a deep breath.
"Everyone just relax," she says reassuringly, now addressing everyone but Rose, "Memory loss is typical of cases such as Rose's. Given the potions and spells we've administered to lessen the pain, it's to be expected that she won't remember much. But don't worry – it should all come back with a little time. Once we've stopped medicating her she should be much more lucid."
"Then stop medicating her!" man-brick exclaims loudly, "How's she supposed to play when she can't even remember what a bludger is?!"
"Good to see you've got Rose's best interests at heart, Fleetwood," Albus mutters coldly. Rose thought it all very strange.
"I have got her best interests at heart!" Maximillian the brick defends with a voice so strained its almost at a normal decibel level, "She's in running for League Best and Fairest this season – if she misses too many games –"
"Oh for pity's sake!" Albus claims with a dramatic roll of his eyes.
Rose blocks the rest of them out, too focused on her man pillow. His eyes are still focused solely on her despite the madness that is erupting around them. She tries to smile at him but it hurts and it takes too much energy and she just wants him over here next to her so she can sleep dammit!
Rose feels her eyelids drooping and her head growing heavier. Mediwitch apparently picks up on it by the way she says, "Look, Miss. Weasley is clearly too exhausted to be taking visitors – I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."
"I'm not going anywhere!" her father protests first, very loudly, "She is my daughter and –"
"You should do what's best for her," Mediwitch finishes, "No visitors."
There's a look in her eyes that almost asks him to challenge her – I dare you. Her father's eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to fall right into her trap when Albus stops him.
"Come on, Uncle Ron," he says in a tone so even and controlled that Rose thinks he should be a permanent argument-settler. Really, he should look into that as a profession. Pro-fess-ion. What a funny word, "Aunt Hermione will castrate you if she has to find out about Rose's accident by the Daily Prophet nightly edition."
Rose doesn't see because her eyes have drooped closed again for a few minutes, but her father's face turns a whiter shade of pale before he grumbles under his breath and heads begrudgingly for the door.
Mediwitch Willowood looks at the man-brick and raises that same eyebrow – go ahead and try Mister, just go ahead and try. Man-brick doesn't try.
Albus follows him out after bidding Rose farewell and getting ready to physically force her father out of the room. But Rose doesn't want them to leave, no all of them. She needs her Man-Pillow! She needs her Man-Pillow Malfoy right here beside her so she can get some sleep. She wants to sleep! JUST GIVE HER THE DAMN MAN-PILLOW AND NO ONE GETS HURT!
Oh head spin.
Rose is about to voice her thoughts the best she can when Mediwitch speaks, looking at her Man-Pillow with a very unimpressed look on her face.
"Mr. Malfoy," her eyes are mean when she looks at him and Rose thinks it's most unbecoming, "I believe I told you to go back –"
"I'm not leaving."
There's something in Rose's tummy that does several backflips at the sound of his voice. It's melodious and stirring and she thinks that despite the fact that he's handsome, his voice would have been enough of a draw-card for her to fall in love with him. He's still looking at Rose, and she notes that the other three who are in various stages of leaving, all jammed in the doorway, seem genuinely surprised by his defiance.
"I don't believe I phrased it as a question," Mediwitch raises a challenging eyebrow and crosses her arms.
"I don't believe I care," Man-Pillow replies immediately glancing at her with eyes colder than ice before looking back at Rose and heating his eyes back up again. Like those teacup puddings Grandpa and Grandma Granger put in that microwave…she could really go some pudding, "I'm staying with Rose."
"Mr. Malfoy, there are men at the front desk –"
"Who can wait until I have finished," his voice darkened as did his face, had her body not been aching and capable of such a movement, Rose believed she would have shivered. The Mediwitch squared her shoulders and prepared to give what Rose could only assume was a very practiced and successful lecture, when her Man-Pillow cut her off.
"The woman I love almost died today, Miss. Willowood," he said in a voice that was warmer and softer than before and did strange things to Rose's tummy again, "I would like to spend a few minutes alone with her before I'm arrested for saving her life."
Rose doesn't watch the internal turmoil clearly evident on Mediwitch's face. Instead she just looks at her Man-Pillow Scorpius and wishes she could smile without causing herself pain.
"WOMAN I LOVE?!" her father's voice echoes from the hallway, "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"
"Ok, Uncle Ron, let's keep going," Albus is trying to restrain her father who is literally trying to leap over his nephew.
"No! I demand to know -!"
Rose hears Albus – tall gangly be-speckled Alllbooos – manage to hold her father back with the help of a not so gangly male nurse whose passing through on his way back from the permanent care wards.
"Come on Uncle Ron, just remember Aunt Hermione will be waiting!"
She can hear the protests of her father all the way down the hall until they get him back into the waiting room.
Man-brick, although Rose can't see him, is more than a little put out by the whole thing as well, but decides not to fight it when he sees the look Mediwitch Willowood is giving her Man-Pillow – he does not want to be on the receiving end of that. Which just leaves Rose, Mediwitch and Man-Pillow. Beautiful, comfy and entirely-too-far-away-from-her Man-Pillow. His face looks as if it is set in stone as he stares down the Mediwitch. Her lip twitches several times, eyes flicking between Man-Pillow and Rose. Rose thinks Mediwitch should just let him go so he can come over here and wrap her up and let her get some sleep. All she wants is marvelous, marvelous sleep. Is that really too much to ask?
Mediwitch finally cracks.
"Five minutes," Mediwitch says with finality before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.
As soon as the Mediwitch is gone, Man-Pillow doesn't hesitate in walking over to her. Or at least he tries to. Rose notices he's limping very obviously as he hobbles over to be beside her bed.
"Leag..." she manages to say and it sounds pretty close to 'leg' so she internally congratulates herself. He dismisses her comment with a short, "Minor splinch, it's nothing."
Rose doesn't remember what a splinch is and is honestly too concerned with sleep to bother about it at the moment. She watches as Man-Pillow takes off his shoes and gracefully gets into bed with her. Rose momentarily thinks that she doesn't think she would look that graceful jumping into a tiny, already occupied hospital bed, but she pushes the thought aside when he lies down beside her. He sits up taller than her, his chest next to her head. He wraps one of his long arms around her shoulders and pulls her closer to him, tucking her into his chest.
Yes, she thinks with a smile that hurts to make, this is my Man-Pillow.
He's careful not to rest his head atop hers, still concerned about her injuries. His second hand reaches out and captures her own and holds it tightly. Rose rests her forehead against his neck and snuggles down to get more comfortable. She feels a shaky breath leave his body as he murmurs into her hair.
"You are never playing Quidditch again," he says in a voice that she can tell he's trying to make sound authoritative but just comes out as relieved and tired instead.
"Why would I want to play Quidditch?" she asks, slumber wondrously close to capturing her, "Does my money have a rash?"
She feels him smile into her hair and let out another sigh. They lay in silence for a minute and she can feel something stirring inside of him – Man-Pillow is tense. Just before she falls into a blissful sleep that has been kept from her for much too long, she hears him whisper something once more, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand.
"Don't ever get hurt again, Rosie," he begs quietly and she just knows he's closing his eyes too, "Please."
The sadness in his voice makes her open her eyes and crane her head around to look at him. It hurts but it's worth it. His face is flushed and his once cold eyes are now glassy and clouded with tears. She doesn't like it when her Man-Pillow cries, and there's something in the back of her mind that says this doesn't happen too often, which only makes it more scary. She tries her best to smile again, feeling it crawl up the side of her face she can feel, but not the other upset side.
"Ok," she agrees before making a condition of her own, "As long as you're always here when I want to sleep, Man-Pillow."
He smiles in more relief than amusement and kisses her on top of her head softly as he brushes some hair from her face. She tucks her head back into the crook of his neck and settles herself once more.
"Ok, Rosie," he murmurs as she drifts off to sleep, "I promise."
Rose smiled internally as she fell asleep against the solid and familiar chest of her Man-Pillow. As far as she was concerned, she got the better end of the bargain.
Aaaand we're done. But you know what would make my day? If you hit that little ole review button and let me know what you thought. Come on, you know you want to! Thanks and until next time!