Draco had never felt so much physical pain in his life. He'd acted up when the hippogriff scratched him, just for the sake of grabbing the spotlight for a moment. It didn't hurt at all, but at least - for a short moment - people had been concerned about him. Worried about his safety.
Now? When he was actually terribly injured?
He wondered if anybody had even noticed that he was missing from the common room.
He cast his sore eyes down at his scarred chest, bandaged up left, right and center. If he had been Potter, everybody would have come to visit him. There was a time when people had visited him, but - as he remembered - that was just because he stole the spotlight for about five seconds. He thought back to his second year, when he'd convinced his father to splash the cash on Nimbus 2001's in an attempt to make some friends.
Potter was right, then. Money doesn't get anybody good friends.
He was miserable, his platinum hair fanned out like an ironic halo above his pale, fair face.
I'm no angel.
I'm not perfect. Only human.
Breathing hurt. He just wanted to close his eyes and not wake up again, at this point. Too full of stress. Part of him hoped that he'd never recover. Get something terminal, for some comfort off other people - even if they weren't totally genuine about it - just because he was dying. The rational part of him told everybody to go fuck themselves; he didn't want them near him, breathing his final, otherwise clean breaths of air if they didn't give a damn about him or his well-being.
It all hurts too much. Physically, mentally, emotionally... In this state, I feel less intelligent. I don't feel right. I feel incomplete. Deprived. Unworthy.
His face crumpled, turning red as he tried to bite back sobs.
He riveted back to his attitude in the bathroom, suddenly not wanting the attention. He just wanted to be left alone where he could breathe and-
Think? No. Thinking is the last thing I need to do right now. I wish I could shut it all off, this stressful, tornado of thoughts.
He needed something to distract him.
Distraction... yes. Distraction is what I need.
He looked around the empty hospital wing, devoid of all patients and even Madame Pomfrey (who was in her office), though to his dismay and bitterness, he couldn't find anything about the room that interested him, and if Draco Malfoy wasn't interested, he would deny it altogether.
There's nothing stimulating enough.
It wasn't long before his brain came to torment him again.
Even Madame Pomfrey doesn't like me. Saw her face when she was treating me. Obvious distaste.
He tried to lighten his mood.
I guess that I'm merely a taste she hasn't acquired, then. I'd rather be one person's shot of fire-whiskey than everybody's butterbeer. I can't please everybody.
He frowned deeply, furrowing his brows.
Optimism doesn't suit me. It's uncomfortable. I can't roll a piece of shit in glitter and call it a golden nugget, so why try to do the same to reality?
Thinking of reality hurt his brain again, and once more, his face crumpled, and tears began to well up in his eyes. Well, that was until he heard footsteps.
He immediately closed his eyes, turning his head away, hiding his reddened face. Draco strained his ears to listen.
There was a scent he recognised.
His blood? It was all he had smelt for the past hour or so, so he wouldn't be surprised if he just had a bloody nose again. No, there was definitely a person there, next to his bed. His brow twitched uncomfortably. He hated being watched over.
A looming presence.
Was it Snape?
Surely. He waited for the adenoidal sigh, and then retreating footsteps, but they never came. Instead, there was a pause, and a rustling, as though whoever was stood - or sat - beside him was checking the wing for anybody else who may be watching.
It all made Draco incredibly uneasy, but he had his eyes closed, and so far, whoever it was was under the impression that he was asleep, so he would keep up appearances until the person disappeared.
The silence continued for ages. So long, in fact, that Draco thought that perhaps the noises he had heard had been figments of his delirious imagination. He considered opening his eyes, until somebody's fingertips touched his wrist.
His heart skipped a beat.
Who...?
Something thin and paper-like was pushed into his hand, and those fingers lingered on his palm for a moment before withdrawing.
Then, and only then, was there a soft sigh, before the mystery visitor left.
Was it that Pansy Parkinson girl?
No, he thought, she has small hands. Soft looking hands. And I don't think she'd touch me with a ten meter pole.
Perhaps it was Crabbe? Goyle?
Then again, they know better than to actually touch me. Plus I'm not sure if I even like them as people. I don't trust them, unless they're shielding me from something with their humongous frames. They're too intimidated by me to attempt to touch me.
Who isn't afraid of me...?
A male, with average sized, soft hands. Probably tall. Smelt like-
Wait.
Draco waited patiently, until the footsteps were gone. He sniffed the air again.
The smell of his blood had gone, meaning that the person at his bedside was one of two possible options; Snape... or Potter.
Something told him that Snape didn't seem like the sort to push little paper notes into his hand.
His heart thudded against his chest, loudly, and he tentatively opened his eyes, catching a bleary glimpse of some sort of robe disappearing around the corner.
Draco's eyes immediately flitted down to the note in his hand.
Lined paper, probably from a workbook.
He unfolded it, curiosity peaking.
Two words, written down in a vaguely familiar hand.
"I'm Sorry."