Carving
Snape's assignment had surprisingly gone well—in terms of the assignment itself.
All of our research hours were filled with troublesome silence that ticked me to start awkward small talk. It was humbling in a way.
It was finally a day before the Quidditch match against Gryffindor, and I was in the mood to knock Potter off his beloved Firebolt with the smuggest grin on my face. How satisfying would it be to hear the applause from the house of Green, to hear the boos of the house of red after their golden boy was knocked off by silver. It'd be a dream.
"Are you almost done with your part?" He asks with a bit of reluctance, which was quite disturbing on my part. When did Potter sound reluctant except for when he's answering an oral question from Snape?
"Yeah. I just need a few more details and it's done." I respond vaguely, narrowing my eyes as I notice his right hand trembling.
Potter seemed awfully off.
His fingers barely gripped the quill he held, his handwriting more sloppy than his usual—like he'd fractured his hand or something.
"What's wrong with your hand?"
The words came out of my mouth without it registering in my head. The second I heard the syllables that sounded like I was concerned for him, I bit the inside of my cheek in annoyance. I couldn't deny my curiosity. Curiosity kills the cat, but I'm goddamn curiosity.
I watched as his eyes shifted from me to his hand, and it was clear that his insides were stirring up from the way he stares at his hand. Like he had something to tell me, but he couldn't tell me. I couldn't blame him though, we never really talked. Not unless if we were barking at each other because one of us stepped into one's way, or if we had to be partners in a project. Like this one.
"It's none of your business." He responds.
No snarky saying of Malfoy?
I arch a brow skeptically, scoffing lightly under my breath. Did he hear himself? Was he fucking deaf?
"By the way, I'm not a troll, Potter." I blurt out.
"I know you aren't, Malfoy." He stares at me with a deadpanned expression.
"I'm not a troll not to realize that you're lying to me, Potter. And I swear, for the first time in my life, that I won't tell anyone." I swore, which was odd to hear. "If you do bother telling me."
"Nice joke, Malfoy." He cracks his knuckles with a discreet wince.
"You winced. Tell me."
Potter stared at me, his eyes scanning my own for any deception, I hoped he didn't.
I genuinely hoped he didn't.
"Nothing's wrong." He starts writing again.
"Liar." My eyebrows slowly furrow at his obvious denial. "Why do you care?" Potter slowly shifts.
"I'm not some heartless prick, Potter."
"You seem like one."
"Well I'm not."
I narrow my eyes at him, boring my eyes into his as to dare him to deny further. I dared him far more times than this. Dared him to catch Longbottom's remembrall in our first year in Hogwarts, dared him with those fake dementors in our third, dared him too many times than I'd like to admit.
I enjoyed daring him though, it gave me some sort of temporary control over him, even if I knew he was all better than me. He was better than me in things that I always thought I was good at.
Quidditch.
Flying.
And most of all?
Being seen as a good person.
"I swear." I add reluctantly.
"You better not tell anyone about it. And I'm serious about it, Malfoy." He furrows his eyebrows, shifting in his seat.
"What? You think I'm gonna tell a soul and the word will spread out of Hogwarts like wildfire?" I chuckle sarcastically. He gives me a look as to indicate a silent 'yes', and I scoff. "I was kidding."
"I'm not." He rolls up the sleeve of his right arm, and shows me the back of his hand.
I must not tell lies.
My eyes bore into the words carved into his skin, a churn stirring in my stomach. What the fuck.
"Where'd you get that?" I ask almost immediately, eyes snapping from the words carved on his skin like it was wood, and to his face. His face etched with utter reluctance, face etched with the words he couldn't say.
"I can't say." Was all he replied.
"Merlin's Beard, Potter, tell me who the bloody hell is mental to do this?" I nearly snap.
Why would I care?
Why would I care?
Why would I snap over his own problems?
Over his own burdens?
Did I even give a shit?
Or was I acting again?
Potter stares at me, equally as bewildered as me at my blurted words, clearly not used to it as I. "Do you swear not to—"
"I swear on my bloody name." I narrow my eyes.
"Umbridge."
A cold hand clutches my heart, eyes going wide with disbelief. What the hell?
"Ever since I've gotten detention with her every Saturday, she makes me writes I must not tell lies on parchment with a special quill." He elaborates reluctantly.
"And you don't bother telling a teacher? Are you mental?" I whisper-shout, furrowing my eyebrows in genuine frustration. I was cruel to Potter yes, but I wouldn't go this far. I knew I wouldn't.
I knew Umbridge was bad news, considering the fac that she originated from the orders of the Ministry, but I didn't know the government would be this bad. The Daily Prophet may have been spiraling with news that I couldn't even believe myself, but this very piece of evidence proved me wrong. Potter wasn't a lunatic. He was spitting the goddamn truth and the government's corrupted enough to boycott news that could spare the lives of millions. The lives of the entire magical race even. Mental. Mental. Lunatics. Lunatics. Cowards. Petulant cowards. Cowards. Cowards.
"She'd fail me, and I'd be arrested and-"
"You better bloody tell me if she does, Potter." I narrow my eyes.
"When did you care?" Potter leans back, covering his hand with his sleeve once again, eyeing me with skepticism.
"I'm a wizard with common sense, and awareness of basic human rights. I know for a fact that everyone has a freedom of speech. Use it for Merlin's sake, Potter." I berate with a modulated voice, standing up and keeping my rolls of parchment.
I felt his eyes on me, troubled, almost skeptical at my change of behavior.
Even I was.
"Look, Potter. I care more than you think, but it's purely out of human decency. Nothing more, nothing less. You hear me?" I add, glancing at him as I sling my bag on my shoulder.
"Heard." He responds with a light scoff. He mirrors my actions, but I don't bother waiting for him to finish doing so.
"Good luck on the game. And you better tell me if Umbridge arrests you." I say as I walk out of the library with a newfound hatred towards the woman in pink, and a voice of shrill pettiness and sardonic manner.