𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓪𝓽𝓮

33| Pain

"All right there, Scarhead?" yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath him as though to show off the speed of his broom. 

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting towards him; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

 "Close one, Harry!" said George, streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back towards a Slytherin. Harry saw George give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in mid-air and shot straight for Harry again.  

Alexander dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard towards Draco. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Alexander's head. Hadrian flew over to the Bludger.

Alexander put on a burst of speed and zoomed towards the other end of the pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. Hadrian flew by the Bludger's side, waiting for the right moment to hit it into the stands. 

"What's going on? Someone help", Alexander screamed.

The Bludger was about to smack Harry - no, Alexander - right in the back of the head when Hadrian extended his arm and hit the Bludger with it. The Bludger smashed into a hoop. Hadrian's arm felt on fire.

Hadrian woke up drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, the room spun, and the Bludger was still there, somewhere behind him, whistling as it chased him down. He blinked, disoriented, before the pain in his arm hit him in a sudden wave. His arm felt like it had been shattered, a burning agony radiating from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. His fingers were stiff, barely responding, as though the nerves themselves had short-circuited. 

He lay there, frozen, his heart slamming against his ribs. The nightmare clung to him like a second skin—every nerve still on high alert, expecting the Bludger to crash into him again. His fingers twitched involuntarily, curling as if trying to grasp his broom, but they wouldn't obey him. A sharp crackling pain shot through his forearm. He had smashed his arm into the wooden part of the bed's headrest.

With a grimace, he lifted his arm, hissing as the pain flared up again. The skin was already swollen and beginning to bruise, a deep, ugly purple spreading across his knuckles and forearm. His fingers were stiff and swollen too, and when he tried to flex them, they moved sluggishly, as if bound by invisible weights. The lingering tension in his chest frustrated him more than the physical ache did.

"Shit," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he carefully moved his arm. Every inch of movement made the pain worse, as though his bones were grinding against each other. He could feel the heat radiating from the injury.

Hadrian exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. The injury would be a problem, but what gnawed at him even more was the helplessness. He hated this—hated how the dreams left him feeling raw, exposed. And they always occurred the night before anything that had happened to Harry was to happen with the brat. His mind was supposed to be under his control, and yet it betrayed him, turning him into the very thing he despised most: weak.

Hadrian forced himself to sit up, his muscles tense from the nightmare. His arm throbbed with every movement, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let the pain get the better of him. He used his left hand and grabbed his wand from the nightstand, his ambidexterity coming in handy, and whispered hoarsely, "Lumos."

The dim light illuminated the room, casting harsh shadows on the walls. He glanced at his arm, grimacing at the sight. The bruise was worse than he'd thought it to be—deep purple and blue splotches covered his knuckles and forearm, the swelling making his skin tight and painful to the touch. It would heal in a day or two, but it was painful - he'd have to lock it out. His fingers were practically useless, sluggish and swollen, barely able to flex.