by Perr. Yes, I do the Draco POV and Jas Harry's POV. Occasionally, we do everything together. I'll just be indicating who does which ones. Also, because schooling term opens on Monday, we may have to change our deadline to a chapter every five days. Until then, enjoy everything that's coming up! :) Thanks for the reviews, guys.
Draco's POV
It's quiet all around, I think I was unconscious for a while. There's nobody beside me, except for a beetle and it's pathetic legs, crawling on the bed's metal sides.
It smells so distinctly of hospital, and my arm feels itchy in a cast. It's so much like the time where that bird in Hagrid's class took a clean swipe at me, except, slightly more painful.
I hate staying in this wing. It's awful lonely.
Ouch, I feel as I scrunge up my nose. That's broken too, isn't it? All because of my wandering mind, all because of that boy, that treacherous little monkey who caused me misery since he stepped in here. Put my father in Prison, indirectly making my mother absolutely bonkers, making me so... so... angry at him. If I can't beat him in Quidditch, I can with the books.
And speak of the devil, he comes in, still in his robes, a cut on his lip and a scratch on his cheek. He stands on the end of the bed, fingers tracing gods-know-what patterns on the wood. "What happened?" I ask.
He just says, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" I frown. It hurts, but pain is nothing when I'm making myself look good in front of Potter. "You're sorry?"
I can see his jaw muscles clench, and I have another go. But differently. "Fine. But don't think that this'll change my views about you." His sympathy, if it's even real at all, is so unnerving.
My feet are cold. My toes wiggle.
Waitagoddamnminute.
Is this Déjà vu?
My breathing suddenly hitches at my memory. Cold feet. His sympathy. My words. Something rides up my spine and causes my joints to stiffen, my broken bones to fragment even further.
His hands, from tracing, grasp the end of the blanket gently, and then fold them over my feet, covering my soles completely. This cannot be happening! I scream in my head. There's a very, very agonising pause between him and I, and something in the pit of my stomach warms up when takes
one step to his left
two steps
three steps
and then he walks away.
I don't know what's the matter with me. If I've learnt to decipher my feelings correctly, that would be something along the lines of disappointment that's gnawing at my insides. Like a gust of soft summer breeze, he's disappeared.
Goyle steps in minutes after, and I feel slightly better with his company. After all, if I can't appreciate his company, who else can I trust myself with? We've got so much in common, family-wise, blood-wise, enemy- wise.
Unlike he and I.
But ever since he's left the room, something inside's gone along with him as well. And I don't ever want to think about it again.
Draco's POV
It's quiet all around, I think I was unconscious for a while. There's nobody beside me, except for a beetle and it's pathetic legs, crawling on the bed's metal sides.
It smells so distinctly of hospital, and my arm feels itchy in a cast. It's so much like the time where that bird in Hagrid's class took a clean swipe at me, except, slightly more painful.
I hate staying in this wing. It's awful lonely.
Ouch, I feel as I scrunge up my nose. That's broken too, isn't it? All because of my wandering mind, all because of that boy, that treacherous little monkey who caused me misery since he stepped in here. Put my father in Prison, indirectly making my mother absolutely bonkers, making me so... so... angry at him. If I can't beat him in Quidditch, I can with the books.
And speak of the devil, he comes in, still in his robes, a cut on his lip and a scratch on his cheek. He stands on the end of the bed, fingers tracing gods-know-what patterns on the wood. "What happened?" I ask.
He just says, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" I frown. It hurts, but pain is nothing when I'm making myself look good in front of Potter. "You're sorry?"
I can see his jaw muscles clench, and I have another go. But differently. "Fine. But don't think that this'll change my views about you." His sympathy, if it's even real at all, is so unnerving.
My feet are cold. My toes wiggle.
Waitagoddamnminute.
Is this Déjà vu?
My breathing suddenly hitches at my memory. Cold feet. His sympathy. My words. Something rides up my spine and causes my joints to stiffen, my broken bones to fragment even further.
His hands, from tracing, grasp the end of the blanket gently, and then fold them over my feet, covering my soles completely. This cannot be happening! I scream in my head. There's a very, very agonising pause between him and I, and something in the pit of my stomach warms up when takes
one step to his left
two steps
three steps
and then he walks away.
I don't know what's the matter with me. If I've learnt to decipher my feelings correctly, that would be something along the lines of disappointment that's gnawing at my insides. Like a gust of soft summer breeze, he's disappeared.
Goyle steps in minutes after, and I feel slightly better with his company. After all, if I can't appreciate his company, who else can I trust myself with? We've got so much in common, family-wise, blood-wise, enemy- wise.
Unlike he and I.
But ever since he's left the room, something inside's gone along with him as well. And I don't ever want to think about it again.