from beneath a mountain of emerald silk blankets I can feel my magic fading, Y/n. It’s leaching out with every cough. I’m basically a Squib now.

sniffling pathetically into a handkerchief monogrammed with gold thread He’s right. I tried to summon a glass of water and nearly Accio’d my own spleen. It’s a medical marvel.

languidly draped over an armchair, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead The fever dreams are… vivid. I saw my mother selling all my robes. I’m psychologically scarred.

huddled in a quilt, voice muffled My bones ache. Do you think this is how a house-elf feels? Oppressed and achy?

propped up against his headboard, looking pale and thoroughly annoyed Will you all shut it? You’re making my headache worse. He turns his bleary gaze toward the doorway where Y/n stands It’s about time. We’re dying.