DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEWS

Rewriting a Story From a Different P.O.V

From  the chapter 'Sectumsempra' in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

Draco dashed towards the seventh floor bathroom. He loosened his tie as the suits of armour flew by and he slammed into the heavy door, forcing it open. He couldn’t do it anymore...it wasn’t going to work and that means–

He unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt, feeling as though he wasn’t getting enough air and staggered towards the closest sink. He turned on the cold tap and cupped a handful, splashing across his face and taking a heavy breath.

“Draco, Draco,” cooed a voice from the stall of a bathroom. It was Moaning Myrtle, the one thing Draco had confided in throughout his work, the one thing that claimed to understand him. “What’s wrong?”

Draco looked up into the dirty mirror as he clutched to the side of the sink like it was his lifeline. He was as pale as a sheet and his hair was hanging messily over his face. It was only then that he realised he was shaking uncontrollably. The pressure had finally gotten to him. It was the thought of only having a few weeks left, realising that it won’t be finished in time, knowing what will happen when it isn’t...

He began to sob as he thought about how angry the Dark Lord would be, each breath becoming more and more uncontrollable. Within seconds, he was struggling to get enough air.

“Please don’t, Draco. Just breathe...tell me what’s wrong.”

The ghost’s voice convinced him to take a deep, steady breath. Tears spilled over his eyes, creating perfect tracks down his sweaty face, but he didn’t try to wipe them away or stop them. He clutched the sink tighter, so much that the whites of his knuckles showed, and tried not to think of the way the Dark Lord had killed people in the past, how he made them feel his wrath before he finally showed them mercy by ending their life.

His soft cries echoed throughout the bathroom one again and he sucked down air whenever he could.

“Don’t,” Moaning Myrtle’s voice said once more, “Don’t...tell me what’s wrong...I can help you.”

“No one can help me,” Draco stated, knowing it was the truth. “I can’t do it...I can’t...it won’t work...and unless I can do it soon...” His body began to shake more violently as he gulped, “...he says he’ll kill me.” Another tear dripped down his face, falling into the dirty sink below. Draco’s eyes wandered to the mirror, wanting to pull himself together and get back to work, when his eyes fell onto the last thing he wanted to see right now.

Potter was just standing in the doorway, his mouth slightly open in shock. How much had he seen? How much had he heard?  Did he know?

Draco whirled around, his wand out and pointing at Potter before he could really think about what he was doing. He aimed a hex when Potter’s wand appeared in his hand, but it missed by a few feet. The lamp that it hit smashed and the glass shattered as it fell to the ground.

He blocked a jinx sent in his direction as Moaning Myrtle began to scream from her cubicle, begging them to stop, but Draco couldn’t. He had to make Potter pay, not just for spying on him, but for everything he had put him through for the past six years.

The bin next to the door was the next thing to be destroyed as Moaning Myrtle appeared above Draco. He ducked as a spell flew past his ear. They were both skilled duellers, but Draco’s emotions weren’t completely under control, giving Potter the upper hand when he slipped on the wet floor. Draco raised his wand in one last desperate attempt, and screamed, “Cruci–”

“SECTUMSEMPRA!”

Draco didn’t know the spell that hit him, nor did he realise the effect it would have on him. He staggered backwards and felt his wand escape his now weak grip as what can only be compared to a sword slashed across his face and chest, each cut deeper than the last. He fell to the floor and shook as indescribable pain coursed throughout his entire being. His mind couldn’t help stray to the fact that if he didn’t finish the cabinet, he’d be in greater pain.

Potter dropped to his side as Draco felt warm liquid soak his clothes, only to realise that it was his own blood. He clutched his chest and fingered the wounds, willing the blood to stop flowing at such a rapid pace.

“No – I didn’t –” Potter stammered.

Draco winced as he heard Moaning Myrtle scream over the top of Potter’s blabbers, the words making whatever blood he had left run cold: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”

He couldn’t be dead. But maybe it would be better if he went now. Better than what would happen if he failed his one vital task.