I hate you.
You know that, I know that. Everyone in this damn school knows that. Probably everyone in the world.
You mean nothing to me.
So why can't I leave?
I'm sitting here watching rain beat that ridiculous hair of yours flat against your skull instead of saving my own arse, or, failing that, making myself useful. They're all watching me. Your friends, the stragglers, the survivors...even now they don't quite trust me with you. I keep thinking that the Weasel is going to try and start some sort of Muggle brawl with me, especially without your Mudblood bitch around to stop him. If I had any common sense, I'd stay away from you. It's not too late. I could follow my father and the others, tell them I got lost in the rain...
I'm an idiot, and it's your fault.
But you're still breathing. I've got your head in my lap and my wand at your chest and somehow I can't bring myself to care what they all must be thinking when I might be the only thing keeping your scrawny chest rising and falling.
I'll get you for this later.
Damn it, Potter, wake up.