Chapter Nine

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The next morning, Potter did not come down for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. Draco didn't think anything of it, until days turned into a week.
“Potter?” Draco asked, knocking on his door.
There was no answer.
“Come on Potter, I know you're probably mad at me, but could you at least say something so I know you're still alive?”
When there was again no reply, Draco became worried. He quickly reached for the door knob and pulled it open, only to be met with an empty room.
His stomach dropped. He's gone, Draco thought, Potter's gone.

Draco grabbed his backpack filling it with any food in his cabinets, then ran to his closet, reaching for his coat and putting it on. He grabbed his shotgun, and left. He didn't bother locking his door. It didn't matter. What did matter was Potter. All of the possibilities running through Draco's head had his heart racing. Potter could have been attacked by non infected. His wounds could have reopened, or even worst, he could have a bullet buried directly between his eyes. Draco ran faster. Please, he begged, please let Potter be okay.

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