Magic, as you may know, is quite an extraordinary thing. But not any little bit of magic can explain this.
~*~
Hazel Potter, Rosalie Weasley, and Henry Granger don't quite understand why and where they are-they can't find the rest of the Weasleys an...
Well, that's the first George noticed, anyways. People all around him wore winter hats and scarves, nestled tightly in their coats. Children's faces were red as they smiled with glee, completely ignoring the bitterness of the cold he felt. Marcella waved her hand in front of his face to draw his attention.
"We're here," she said softly with a smile. He nodded, still taking in his surroundings. For some reason, this felt ominous. George could tell that they shouldn't be here.
"I tried to take us somewhere in the city, but my pull was changed to here."
The warning alarms blared in his head. He gripped his wand tighter in his pocket. "We're not supposed to be here."
Marcella looked at him. His cheeks were a bitter red, his eyebrows knitted together. His eyes filled with determination.
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George pulled Marcella into a nearby alley way, hushing her. A figure peered into the alleyway. Their eyes scanned the dark, damp passage way. Rolling their eyes, the continued on their way.
George let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Clearing his throat, he looked at Marcella. "Where are we again?"
"We...we're in Philadelphia. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."
The brick buildings surrounding them seemed to have a home like feel. Little restaurants and boutiques lined the streets. A feeling of nostalgia settled in George's stomach, however he couldn't figure out why. He jumped at the sudden strike of lightning.
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"We should find some sort of shelter in a cafe or something," Marcella said quietly. "I need to rest a bit before we can apparate again."
George nodded wordlessly. Side by side, the two walked. However, George only had one person on his mind.
Hazel Jane. ~
He missed her. Of course, Draco would never admit it. Just like he wouldn't admit to the fact that he wrote letters to a deceased girl everyday. He stored them under his mattress, so his father wouldn't find them.
Draco stared at the ceiling. Grief is strange. He had been surrounded by death his whole life, but he had never quite felt like this before. This sort of emptiness that he experienced was new. It hurt like hell, too.
He glanced over at his desk. His eyes lingered over the parchment and quill. His fingers burned to write, his heart aching. Too much had been happening, too much forced over his head that he wouldn't be able to handle. He just wanted to sleep. Or talk. With her.
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His hands shook as he held the quill.
Jane,
Maybe it's because you were a puzzle to me. That's the only true understanding I can have for this grief. It isn't really grief, is it? It's just disappointment–like not being able to finish a meal, or being cold. There's no other reasoning for it of course.
Bloody hell. I'm going insane here...these people...they want me to hurt him. I don't know if I can. You're supposed to be her you know. You're supposed to be here to talk me out of it all.
But damnit, you aren't. You aren't here Jane. How am I supposed to even process this. You just left me.Youdidn'tevenhelp me escape.
Malfoy.
Pressing a stamp into the envelope, he softly put the letter under his pillow this time.
He missed her.
~~
THATS RIGHT BITCHES!I missed y'all. Can you believe I started this story as a depressed seventh grader, and now as a happy high schooler I get to finish what I started?
I've had writers block forever, and now I'm at a place in my life I can finally give you guys new work. I'm excited.
