I don't own anyone. J.K. Rowling is God. I bow down. Also, the title
doesn't belong to me, it belongs to Disney. Don't sue.
His mind seethed with anger and longing as he stalked by their library table, pretending not to notice them. Their bursts of laughter drove him out and he began sprinting towards the dungeons. Nearing the common room, he slowed and caught his breath, regaining his icy demeanor. Straightening his back, he made his way to and then through the door, strutting towards the boy's dormitories. He grimaced inwardly as Pansy attached herself to his arm. He gave her a glare, cold enough to freeze her ugly pug face in place and made his escape as her grip loosened.
Making his way upstairs, his robes billowed outwards and he prayed no one was in the dormitory. As he entered, Crabbe and Goyle looked up and, noticing his rigid stature, quietly left. *At least they're good for something* he thought to himself, settling down to brood and pity himself. His glance skated over his side of the room. The shelves of old books, the desk of fine items and his designer clothing all seemed to mock him silently.
*Look at this crap. You would think my "collection" is complete. People call me the guy who has everything. A good name, lots of money, kinda friends. I should be happy, right?* he wondered to himself. The realization he tramples down with carnivorous llamas was niggling to dawn on his over-stressed and weary mind, yet again.
The anger melted to sadness and envy while the longing appeared to grow even worse, like a fish hook attached to his heart, pulling it downwards into the pit of his stomach.
He knew what would make it stop.
Kneeling on the timber floors, he reached under his bed for his most prized possession. Lifting out the carved wooden box, he then sat back and rolled up his pant leg. Choosing a spot, he opened his sacred box and withdrew his used ceremony cloth. Placing the cloth underneath his desired spot, he then removed the dagger. The green and silver gems winked at him from the handle as he admired the beautifully sharp edges.
Lowering the blade, he watched in intense fascination as a hand, seemingly not his own, made a slicing motion and red gushed like a fountain of fine wine. The awful feelings bottled up seemed to flow out of his heart, carried on the current of his life force. Sighing in contemplation, he flicked his wand and muggle music filled the room with an ominous beat, like the pulsing of his blood.
He cleaned the mess and put the box back where it had been. The crooning voice of the singer was the last to enter into his hearing as he drifted into exhaustion.
"It's only you who can tell me apart. And it's only you who can turn my wooden heart."
His mind seethed with anger and longing as he stalked by their library table, pretending not to notice them. Their bursts of laughter drove him out and he began sprinting towards the dungeons. Nearing the common room, he slowed and caught his breath, regaining his icy demeanor. Straightening his back, he made his way to and then through the door, strutting towards the boy's dormitories. He grimaced inwardly as Pansy attached herself to his arm. He gave her a glare, cold enough to freeze her ugly pug face in place and made his escape as her grip loosened.
Making his way upstairs, his robes billowed outwards and he prayed no one was in the dormitory. As he entered, Crabbe and Goyle looked up and, noticing his rigid stature, quietly left. *At least they're good for something* he thought to himself, settling down to brood and pity himself. His glance skated over his side of the room. The shelves of old books, the desk of fine items and his designer clothing all seemed to mock him silently.
*Look at this crap. You would think my "collection" is complete. People call me the guy who has everything. A good name, lots of money, kinda friends. I should be happy, right?* he wondered to himself. The realization he tramples down with carnivorous llamas was niggling to dawn on his over-stressed and weary mind, yet again.
The anger melted to sadness and envy while the longing appeared to grow even worse, like a fish hook attached to his heart, pulling it downwards into the pit of his stomach.
He knew what would make it stop.
Kneeling on the timber floors, he reached under his bed for his most prized possession. Lifting out the carved wooden box, he then sat back and rolled up his pant leg. Choosing a spot, he opened his sacred box and withdrew his used ceremony cloth. Placing the cloth underneath his desired spot, he then removed the dagger. The green and silver gems winked at him from the handle as he admired the beautifully sharp edges.
Lowering the blade, he watched in intense fascination as a hand, seemingly not his own, made a slicing motion and red gushed like a fountain of fine wine. The awful feelings bottled up seemed to flow out of his heart, carried on the current of his life force. Sighing in contemplation, he flicked his wand and muggle music filled the room with an ominous beat, like the pulsing of his blood.
He cleaned the mess and put the box back where it had been. The crooning voice of the singer was the last to enter into his hearing as he drifted into exhaustion.
"It's only you who can tell me apart. And it's only you who can turn my wooden heart."