Drarry- It Was All Just a Game (Old Version)

Chapter 9- Detention

Harry couldn't get any sleep that night. Once he reached his dormitory, the blood dripping down his nose stopped, but he still felt sad and sick and angry. The boy walked to the bathroom and closed the door with a click of the lock.

He put his hands in the sink and tried to steady his breathing. His heart hurt so much. It wasn't the fact that he really liked being with Draco so much; it was that he was fooled so easily, as well as the fact he couldn't tell anybody about it without being a laughing stock. That he wasn't good enough for him.

Why couldn't he just be normal? Why did he have to be who he was? Obviously, it wasn't good enough.  

He already had so much angst from all those years of battling someone else's war, with Lord Voldemort. Along with the Triwizard Tournament in the back of his head itching at him, he hadn't even tried to figure out who put his name in the goblet. 

He wished he had a father, and he wished he had a mother. 

Was he good enough for his parents? Was he good enough for love at all?

He wiped the dried blood from his lip. His nose was already bruising and thunderously throbbed. He took his clothing and left the bathroom to find no one back yet, thankfully, and he stuffed his robes into the drawer, not caring if he wrinkled them.

He slammed the door to the dresser and jumped onto his bed, ready for hell to take over the night. Harry closed his scarlet curtains and placed a silence charm over his canopy to assure no one could hear his stomach boiling in rage.

He plotted.

-------------------------------------------

Draco walked up to his separate room holding his nose. The punch Harry threw was much harder than the one he sent in return, and his pride stung because of it. His whole face was throbbing and felt as though it was to dent any second.

His heart also hurt, but Draco never had such a burning pain before, so the feeling was intensified drastically to the naked eye.

Draco's stomach also seared. It was as if he could feel what Potter was feeling, too. But then again, Potter punched him there too, and maybe that's why it felt so weird. As if insects crawled along his stomach's walls.

It couldn't be regret; he doesn't regret things. He doesn't feel sorrow; that couldn't be it. But it for sure couldn't be love; he never even understood compassion.

So what was it that made him feel so queasy?

This 'illness' infected his every organ and drove Draco to the point of madness.

He went to his own personal bathroom and wiped off the blood, revealing a clammy wreak. Draco's nose was so purple and swollen, he thought he'd been hit with a beaters bat. But what drove him to extremes was not his bruises or his bloodied nose, but his eyes were mercury, the most dimensional color they had ever turned.

Damn it!

Draco took off his shirt to reveal a bruised abdomen, so big that it spread across his lower stomach in purple and black. He had a few other bruises in random places, nothing too horrible, except large spot on his hip that crossed to his lower backbone. That must of been from when he was shoved to the floor.

Draco looked back up to his numb face to see a single tear form in the corner of his eye. Draco wiped it onto his finger and watched it slide down until he took his other hand and he swatted it away. Boiling with anger, Draco ran the sink and splashed his face.

"No, stop it," he told himself, "You can't be, I won't allow it. You don't care about him, so don't even think about it! It was a joke, a game. He means nothing!"