"I write her a letter
just a few short lines,
and suffer death
a thousand times."
Asteria O'Connor, sole heir of a prestigious wizarding family,
has other plans when the self-proclaimed Marauders decide to
torment her and her housemates.
It's abo...
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aster
"If you could kindly move your fucking chair over or does your fat arse just need that much space?" I mutter to the boy next to me.
"Oh gladly," Potter feigns sincerity, sarcasm lacing his voice. His tone returns to his usual eyeball gouging octave. "Anything to move further away from you. I could catch something you've been passing around the Slytherin dorms."
As we wait for Slughorn to start the lesson, myself and the bespectacled Gryffindor beside me bicker back and forth as we do almost every Potions class.
"Trust me Potter, the only thing I'll be passing around there will be the Quidditch trophy just like I did last year and the year before. Oh yeah, and the year before."
"Gonna be different this year," he says, a determined look in his eyes. "Gryffindor have won both matches and have been training nonstop—"
"Same here, Potter. Don't act like your team is better than mine. The only difference is that you're too afraid to push the boundaries in case you get a slap on the wrist from McGonagall."
"And how far is pushing the boundaries, O'Connor, hm?" he questions whilst opening up his book to the correct page. I mimic his actions. I look up at our teacher, still bumbling around at the front of class. "What's your limit? Breaking the ribs of a second year not enough for you?"
I look around the class absentmindedly, trying to hide the guilt I feel. The boy came out all right and was fixed and let out the next morning. The Bludger wasn't meant for him. I saw it happen in slow motion the second the Bludger left my bat. He wasn't looking where he was going, only focussed on an oncoming pass and as a result he flew straight into the metal ball.
I hadn't realised that it had shaken me so much until I had a nightmare about it. I ran into the Hospital Wing and Pomfrey wasn't there, nobody was. It was only me who could attend to him. Afraid and desperate to keep the spluttering and bloody child alive, my heartbeat pounded in my eardrums as I sprinted to his side. Scared that his heavy breathing could stop at any moment, I ripped off his mustard yellow Quidditch jersey only to stare at his torso, a chill running down my spine.
There, spread across his abdomen were sickly dark bruises, poisoning the paleness of his skin. I look up suddenly as the boy intakes a sharp breath. Only it's not the boy staring back, it's me. I woke up then, a layer of chilled sweat coating my body. I couldn't get back to sleep or focus in class for the rest of the day.
"He was in the way," I murmur, sinking lower in my chair to feign getting comfortable. "He didn't look where he was going."
"Sometimes you're too cold, O'Connor." He shakes his head in disappointment.
"And that is exactly why you're too weak," I say leisurely, letting out a long sigh. "I injured the kid, he's fine now. I'm not gonna get hung up about it if there's no reason to. You see that as cutthroat," I turn to look him dead in the eye, "I see it as saving my breath."
