Draco Malfoy (_superb) wrote in iamb_rpg, @ 2009-07-15 03:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !incomplete, day 3, draco malfoy, harry potter |
Who: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter
Where: Common Room
When: 11:00 am
What: Neighborly Complaints
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
The common room of the Sanctuary wasn't a very popular room Draco realized. He walked by it every time on his way to his own room and no one was ever in it. People went to the library enough, he didn't know why since there wasn't anything in their but books, but the common room was always empty, serene, and tranquil . He'd found a table in the corner in front of a window that let in a lot of sun. The choice was not only comfortable with his back to the wall, but he could also keep an eye on the door while no one could see him unless they were really looking inside.
It was hot in the sun with his robes on so he'd unclasped them and let them hang over the back of the chair he was sitting in, rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and rested his forearms on the table in front of him. Inbetween them was his journal, opened up to a blank page and his quill was loosely held in his fingers. He'd been at the Sanctuary for three days, the table for three hours, and he knew he should probably write something down, like everyone else seemed to be doing, but the only thing he'd left behind on the page so far were ink blots.
Really, journaling was the farthest thing from his mind which was alright since there were many other more important things to worry about. Things like his first therapy session with Kelly Travers, whether or not Arcturus Prewett was a werewolf or not, what he was supposed to do about Daphne, and more importantly, what he was supposed to do about his next door neighbor. He wasn't sure what Harry had been doing last night. When he'd woken up he was sure Potter was being attacked. At least that was what it had sounded like. He'd gone to see what was happening but the door wouldn't open so he waited with bated breath and an ear to the wall for some sign of what to expect and how soon his impending death really was but nothing had happened.
"I think it was a nightmare," he said to the blank pages of his book. He had nightmares, a lot of them. Sometimes he screamed so loud he woke himself up. The memory made his stomach queasy and he frowned, dropping his quill to the table and his head into his hands. If Harry Potter hadn't come out of the war unscathed, if he needed help, he wasn't sure how much of a chance he himself had. Certainly, things didn't seem too optimistic.