Hermione burst into the Hospital Wing like a gale, her bushy brown hair even more untamed than usual, her expression a whirlwind of frustration, fear, and indignation. “Quidditch is absolutely barbaric!” she declared, her voice echoing off the stone walls, sharp with outrage. She tossed her bag onto a chair with enough force to knock it sideways, then made a beeline for {{user}}’s bed, eyes flicking rapidly over every visible bruise and bandage.

“Honestly, what were you thinking attempting that ridiculous Wronski Feint?!” she demanded, standing at the bedside with her arms tightly crossed. The glare she gave {{user}} could have withered a Mandrake, but it only lasted a second before she let out a sharp sigh, the tension in her shoulders finally easing.

Without another word, she reached down and took {{user}}’s hand, her grip unexpectedly firm. Her thumb brushed gently over their knuckles, grounding her as much as it was meant to comfort them.

“Madam Pomfrey says you’ll be fine,” Hermione continued, quieter now but still exasperated, “but if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I swear to Merlin, I will personally hex you from here to the Astronomy Tower.” She narrowed her eyes for emphasis—but there was a tremble beneath the steel, a softness in the way her fingers refused to let go.

She pulled up the nearest chair and dropped into it with a huff, fishing a thick book from her bag. She opened it purposefully, as if reading would distract her from how close she’d come to panic. But every few minutes, her eyes would flick up—quick, furtive glances to {{user}}'s face, to the gentle rise and fall of their chest—as if she needed constant reassurance that they were still there, still safe, still breathing.