Author's Note:

This is my first story. Well, first on my own anyway. For those of you who don't know me, i'm misspotter94's better half. She can't do a thing without me ;) the poem used in this story is all mine. I wrote years ago. (while listening to MCR). It is also posted on my profile, on my MySpace(yes it's that old), fictionpress, and used in misspotters' New Me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or its characters.

I stared down the now empty hallway. Frozen, my arms still held out so she didn't fall. Her words echoing in my head.

"I'm sorry. I…I'm broken"

Then she picked up her bag and ran away. Her eyes filled with sorrow.

But there was something else there that I couldn't make out. A glimmer of some other emotion. It looked like…

Fear.

I made a move to run after her. To ask what she was afraid of.

Before I could make it more than a couple of steps, I heard a crinkle of parchment beneath my feet. Looking down I noticed it was a piece of muggle notebook paper. It must have dropped from her bag when she ran into me. I was going to put in my pocket and go after her, but the title caught my eye, and I couldn't stop myself.

One Time

One Time,
that's all it took.
Silent as a mime,
as all stood still.

You're scared and hurt,
he just grins.
His hand under your shirt,
try to escape his grasp.

But that isn't all,
he's not done.
You scream and call,
there isn't a sound.

As you lie there,
frozen with fear.
Thinking life isn't fair,
this will happen again.

It's in your eyes,
but no one can see.
Cover up with lies,
just one more time.

Over and over again I read that bloody poem. My anger growing with each passing second. I couldn't take my eyes off the piece of paper.

"I'm sorry. I…I'm broken."

It made sense now. But no. No, she wasn't broken. She was robbed. Made to feel like it was her. I wanted nothing more to go after her. To hold her in my arms and tell her she's not broken. She's perfect. To rock her as she cried. To listen to her, kiss away her tears. Everything. All of it.

Reading the poem for a final time, I pulled my head up and schooled my face. It was the look my Grandfather Lucius perfected. The Malfoy look. My hands slowly fell to my side, the paper crimpling into my fist.

Yes. I had every intention of going after her.

But first.

First, I needed to find the asshole that bruised my Lily.

Author's Note 2: The events in this poem never happened to me. I simply wrote this poem from a rhyme in a song.