Scribbler of Fics

The first half sits slumped. Mouth agape, eyes drooping. Trying everything in their power to stay awake. Those who aren’t half asleep are plotting a mysterious death of their teacher or how to get out of the class. They sit and tap their fingertips together, plotting, praying he chokes on his food or falls to his death. Or sneaking out of this cold place. Wasn’t Hell supposed to be hot? A blaze? A humongous fire pit? It is underground, though. That and the teacher are the only thing that make it qualified for anything close to Hell. Sometimes they like to think of him with horns sprouting out of his head. His train of his robes a tail. His wand a miniature pitch-fork. Strutting through his cave, around stalagmites.

Could it be any harder to say goodbye and without you``Could it be any harder to watch you go, to face what’s true``If only I had one more day``I ran. Ran to hide myself, feeling naked without him. Ran away from him before he could say ‘We could still be friends.’ Everyone says that and everyone knows it never does happen. I ran fast, hoping all these thoughts would just escape with the wind blowing past my ears. I would never feel them again.

I just tell myself that he's not worth it. That I'm better off without him. That I can do better. But how can you do better than him? He's got everything. He is everything, for St. Mungo's sake. you couldn't possibly do better. It's impossible to find someone better than him.