WILD FLOWERS ✿ d.malfoy

12.

Snape paces back and forth in front of me.

"Well?" I say impatiently.

He hands me a cold glare instead of my detention slip. "You questioned the Ministry devised course?"

"Yes."

"You mocked a professor?"

"Yes, but –"

"And you now have a week's worth of detentions only on your first day," his voice is stern; cold.

"Yes," I sigh.

"I am entitled to take all the house points that I have awarded you, away. But that won't teach you a lesson," – I shiver; teach me a lesson... haven't I had my fair share already? – "I cannot do anything, Morgana. You better learn to behave properly."

"Well, I didn't come here of my own accord, did I?" I snatch the slip from his hand and stomp towards the door.

"You are treading on thin ice, Morgana," his voice has lost some of the iciness. "Be careful."

"And since when do you care about anyone?" I spit, slamming the door shut. The sound reverberates through the dark dungeons. The torches flare to life when I walk by, fuming.

• • •

"Leave him," Caelum shrugs. "he's like that to everyone."

"Bar my cousin," Carina throws the glance towards the other end of the table, "he is Snape's favourite."

"Quit talking about him," Tracy says, "although, I must agree, the whole of Hogwarts thinks Snape favours Slytherins. He only favours some of us."

"You contradict yourself," Caelum says, halfway between biting into a baguette.

"I would have better memory of asking for your opinion if I ever did ask for it," she giggles, winking at me. I smile.

"Oh my gosh, yes!" Carina laughs. "The comeback was the best." She slaps my back. I grin, helping myself to some salad.

"I've never seen Malfoy so flabbergasted," Caelum sniggers. "He had literally nothing good to say."

"He," says Carina, "is going to have competition."

"And going to lose," winks Caelum.

"Don't be too sure," I chuckle darkly and don't add the next part. You never know when I burst, and you never see me again. Hell, I don't even see myself anymore.

"Don't worry," Tracy pats my hand, "The detention won't be so bad."

I force a smile. The detention is not what I'm worried about.

• • •

My feet find their way to Umbridge's office. I grudgingly knock on the door and hear her voice calling me inside. I walk in and my feet stop. Pink pink and pink and more pink. Pink everywhere, on the walls, the curtains, the pictures and the desk and chair the carpet slowly seeping into me. I shake it off me. The walls held the pictures – no, these would be videos in the other world – of cats. Ugh, cats. I was never fond of cats, don't think I'll ever be. They're cute and stuff, but not my type.

"Good evening, Miss Morgana." I spin around. There sat Professor Umbridge, however, due to her choice of clothing, she blend in unnaturally well with the tablecloth.

I don't bother responding. Her lips stretch out in amusement; what is she finding funny? She cocks her head towards the desks set out. Two of them. One for me and Harry each. How very respectable.

"Would you have any idea where Mr. Potter might be, Miss Morgana?" she asks sweetly. I smell the venom on her tongue.

"I don't have a clue I'm afraid." There's no point being rude to her and getting myself in anymore trouble. I doubt what I said was even worth all this.

Harry burst through the door, panting. He mutters a small apology looking down.

"Tut, tut," she screeches. She doesn't, but my ears are bleeding anyways. "If you are late once more, I will be obliged to give you more detentions Mr. Potter."

He gulps and sets his stuff aside, sitting in the identical hard and cold chair as mine.

"You both will be writing some lines for me; no, no, not with your quill," she adds. Harry flops his bag back on the ground. "You will be using a rather special one of mine." She hands me a black quill, sharp. Lethal. I suppose one stab of this in the right place will be enough to see if Umbridge has blood like the rest of us, or poison.

"Mr. Potter, you will write 'I must not tell lies'," she says at her brutal attempt at politeness. "Miss Morgana, please write 'I must respect those above me.'"

I clench my jaw and look down. There's no ink. Harry echoes my thought.

"Oh, you won't be needing any ink," she says softly, adding sugar to her tea. She's going to get diabetes. Her hormones – insulin – won't be able to cope with that much glucose. Not like I care anyways.

"How many times?" I make an appreciable attempt at politeness. She smiles at me. Her eyes have already planned my murder. Same here, Dolores, same here.

"Well, let's just say," she stirs her tea, "as long as it takes for the message to – sink in."

I don't like how she says that. Turning over the quill in my hand, my palms are getting sweaty. I wipe them on my skirt and start writing.

My hand is bleeding. I didn't expect that; I did not expect that. Nu uh. I clench my wrist and keep writing, tearing my skin open again and again as I write.

This quill is bewitched. Whatever I write appears on my skin, not like a tattoo, like physically carved into it. And the ink, it's my blood. Umbridge is cackling, her black cloak waving in the wind, her head like that of Maleficent's. The room is red, she's growing bigger and bigger. The castle explodes.

I stare at her. She stares at me. All pink, no cloak, no Maleficent.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she asks, sweetly. Icily.

"No, thank you." I stare at the paper blankly. Her glare cuts shards through me. I force my hand to move.

Her footsteps are approaching me. Her presence feels so near yet far. Real yet unreal.

"You deserve this," Rosemary says. Not a single tear had dropped till now, not even as blood spilt over pink cloth. It's crimson now and reeking of blood.

But now my eyes are swimming with despair. A weight has been placed instead of my heart.

"Don't say that Rose," I beg, "Please."

"You said you loved me," she seethes, "yet you let me die. You should be the one who died."

My throat clenches. I say nothing. I try and shut my mind. I push her out.

She laughs maniacally. It's not her laughing anymore. It's a thousand voices and the emptiness reverberating nothing at all.

"You can't push me out," she spits. "You can't do anything."

I write and I write, and I write. Every day after for the next one week. She doesn't visit me anymore. Maybe she never will.

I don't know if I'm okay with that.

This isn't worth what I said.

--a/n--

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