I moaned and groaned as Potter came with his posse and friends about him, watched him walk in, cradling his boneless arm.

Maybe when I hissed in pain at the sore arm against my chest, Weasley would hear me. Maybe he would take his eyes off of Scarhead for a split second.

Maybe he would look at me with the same worry he felt for Potter.

The way his face frowned in pain for his friend, I wish someone actually cared the same way for me.

But all of my friends were fearful. They don't actually care about me. Never.