#was half written anyways

[unfortunate-arrow]

Not Fine

[Featuring Wendy @drinkyoursoupbitch, Neely @cursebreakerfarrier, and Montague @montaguehphm.]

The sunlight was nearly blinding and Conor O’Donnell squeezed his eyes shut. He reached blindly onto his nightstand, accidentally knocking things off, until he wrapped his fingers around his aviator sunglasses. He blindly shoved them on and sat up. He quickly lay back down, though, as a wave of nausea swept through his body. Once it passed, he stood up quickly, hoping to avoid another wave of nausea. He didn’t. His body swayed and he leaned heavily against one of the posts of his four poster bed. He reached into his trunk and pulled out clothes at random. He ended up with a pair of gray trousers, a white dress shirt and his Ravenclaw tie. He grabbed his bag, and after shoving his eyeglasses into one of the front pockets, slung it across his shoulder. 

He stumbled his way down the stairs to the great hall, stopping only to ride out a few waves of nausea. His eyes fluttered shut for a second before opening again. Once in the Great Hall, he swallowed back the nausea as the smells of breakfast overwhelmed him. Conor stumbled his way to the table where his siblings and a few of their friends were.

“Whoa, Con, you look like something the cat dragged in,” his brother, Ryan, commented. 

“Suck me, Ry. Suck me,” Conor snarled, reaching across the table for a piece of toast. 

“What crawled up your…?” 

“Ryan! Leave him alone for a few minutes,” his sister, Sara exclaimed. 

“I’m not wrong, though. He looks like something the cat dragged in.” 

Conor bit into the piece of toast as his siblings dissolved into bickering. It settled like a rock in his stomach, so he dropped the rest onto the table. He rode another wave of nausea as he stood, but if he didn’t get out of here, he was sure that he was going to vomit and that wouldn’t be pretty. 

He turned around and quickly walked away from the table, swallowing as a combination of nausea and a pounding in the back of his head attacked his body. He swayed and Sara’s hands landed on his shoulders. 

“Conor, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked carefully.

“F-f-f-f-f-fine,” Conor answered, his cheeks flaming.

“Then why are you wearing sunglasses and not your regular glasses?” 

“No-no r-r-r-reason.” 

“Okay. But you can tell me if you’re not feeling well. You don’t look very good.” 

“I’m f-f-f-fine.” 

Sara nodded but looked at him skeptically and let him go. Conor shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way through the hallways to his first class. 

Classes went well until arithmancy. He had been bugged a little about his glasses and the fact that he was paler than normal. Wendy had been the one who badgered him the most during their classes about both his glasses and his loss of color. Then again, to most people he probably didn’t look all that different. It was that Irish paleness, after all. Although, Conor didn’t have the dark hair that his father had had to make him look even paler. 

“Alright, we will be breaking down into groups of four. So please listen for your last name as I group you off,” Professor Sinistra said. 

Conor closed his eyes. The pounding in his head had only gotten worse as the day had gone by and he was seriously considering switching to his eyeglasses. The only debate was either increasing the nausea or having a killer headache. 

“Group 5: Donohue, Gordon, Laurie, and O’Donnell,” she called. 

He stood up and swallowed the nausea back as the pounding in his head worsened. He walked to the corner where a familiar head of blue hair was with two other boys with dark hair. Conor dropped himself into the seat next to Wendy and rubbed his temples. 

“Headache?” Wendy asked and he nodded. “You know if you wore your glasses you wouldn’t have a headache.” 

Conor sighed and dug into the front pocket of his bag. He set the case down on the table and opened it. He pulled out the sleek black frames and placed the aviator glasses into the case instead before sliding the normal eyeglasses on. 

“So, should we introduce ourselves properly? I mean obviously I recognize you as we’re all Ravenclaws, but I’m not totally sure I know your names,” one of the boys, the one with glasses whose name Conor couldn’t quite remember said. 

“Sure. I’m Wendy Gordon,” Wendy said. 

“I’m Montague Donohue, but you could call me Monty, if you’d like.” 

“I’m Neely Laurie,” the other boy said. 

“C-Conor O’Donnell,” Conor said, the heat rising in his cheeks. 

The four teens spread out their notes on the two tables and turned to the board. Conor waved a piece of parchment and loosened his tie. Damn, it’s really fecking hot in here, he thought. His cheeks were still fairly flushed and Wendy shot him a concerned glance. Once Professor Sinistra had finished explaining their project, she turned to him. 

“You still look like crap,” she said. 

“I’m f-f-fine,” Conor said. 

“If you say so. So the project.” 

It didn’t take long for the four teens to start working on the project. It wasn’t too difficult, but the numbers were starting to swim before his eyes. It also felt like the temperature in the room had dropped fifty degrees and the pounding in his head was getting louder. 

“F-f-f-f-f-f-f shit,” Conor swore as the word got stuck. 

Wendy laughed, while Montague and Neely looked slightly horrified and confused. 

“You lads have heard him swear before right?” Wendy asked and the two boys shook their heads. 

“You swear often?” Neely asked. 

“J-just when the-the words get s-s-st-st-stuck. Shit,” Conor answered. 

“He usually will use shit or feck or occasionally fuck. He’ll even swear in Irish,” Wendy said, smirking. 

Conor rolled his eyes, and rubbed his temples with his index fingers. He slid his glasses down for a moment. Black spots dashed across his vision, and he slid his eyes shut. He could make out Wendy and Neely and Montague talking, but it all sounded like it was underwater. He opened his eyes again and pushed his glasses back up his nose. Damn, I think I have a migraine, he thought. The heat in the room increased again and Conor untied his tie a second time, letting the silky material dangle around his neck. He glanced down at the paper again and the world went black. 

~

The room was bright and Conor squinted, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden influx of light. The only problem, once he’d adjusted to the sudden brightness, was that everything was very blurry. Someone handed him his glasses and he slid them on. The hospital wing, shit, he thought. There were six people around his bed; Ryan, Cara, Sara, Wendy, Neely, and Montague. 

“W-what happened?” Conor asked. 

“You passed out, mate. Professor Sinistra asked Montague, Neely and I to take you to Madam Pomfrey,” Wendy said. 

“She had to cool you down before administering the pepper-up potion. Your temperature was 103!” Montague exclaimed and Conor winced, only partially because of the headache that, thankfully, had very much lessened. 

“Yeah, Professor Sinistra is giving us until next week to finish the project,” Neely added. 

“You’re an idiot, Con, that’s what happened,” Ryan said and Conor couldn’t help but offer his brother the middle finger. Ryan, naturally, returned it. 

“You know you can tell people if you don’t feel well,” Sara said, squeezing his hand. Huh, Conor hadn’t even realized that she was holding his hand. 

“It’s like his damn eyesight,” Cara said and Conor glared at her. 

“I’m fine now!” he snapped.