We meet in words | Draco Malfoy (rewriting)

19. (Stop here if reading rewriting)

Isabella

Isabella Anderson lived with the haunting sense that Death hovered just inches away—always near, always watching. But every time she opened her arms to embrace it, Death turned its back on her.

She was a burden too heavy, even for the grave.

She no longer remembered what peace felt like. Her body, a battlefield of scars and bruises, was drained of strength. Pain was the only thing tethering her to existence, the sharp sting reminding her she was still alive—unfortunately.

Her father's boot slammed into her stomach again, stealing the air from her lungs. As he stormed away without a second glance, Isabella collapsed in on herself. The last of her strength bled out with her breath.

She was tired. Tired of surviving. Tired of being ashamed. Tired of being the mess no one wanted to clean up.

Gritting her teeth, she dragged herself upright, one trembling hand clinging to the staircase rail. Her knees wobbled beneath her like they no longer belonged to her. Fresh whip marks carved fire across her back, and every step she took was agony incarnate.

She shoved her feet into worn sneakers, fumbling with the laces. Her fingers trembled so violently, she wasn't sure they'd obey her.

Outside, the stars above barely twinkled, but maybe that was just her hazy vision. The world spun violently around her, and she staggered like a drunk, each step a battle. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and her stomach twisted from the blow.

Then, her legs gave out.

She collapsed to the ground, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as white-hot pain shot through her abdomen. Her arms instinctively tried to shield her ribs, but they were too sore, too stiff.

The earth itself seemed to betray her—cold, unyielding, unforgiving.

A teardrop slid down her cheek. Then another. She blinked up at the sky, but it wasn't raining.

It was just her.

The sobs came, slow at first, then uncontrollable. She buried her face in her arms, weeping until her chest ached and her breath stuttered. She was breaking apart, and there was no one left to pick up the pieces.

Until a voice—soft, confused, familiar—cut through the night.

"Isabella?" Warmth.

Strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her gently as if she weighed nothing. The familiar scent, the comforting voice—Draco.

"What are you doing out here?" he murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief and worry.

She tried to speak, but her voice was a ghost of itself. Her head dropped against his chest, and the fight drained from her limbs.

She was slipping, and she knew it.

"Stay with me." he whispered, his tone low and urgent.

"Just until we get to my house, okay?" She offered a weak nod, unsure if he even saw it.

The darkness swirled at the edge of her vision, and keeping her eyes open became a war she was losing.

As he carried her, Draco spoke—soft, steady, frantic. Anything to keep her conscious. His voice was a lifeline, one she desperately clung to, even as the world faded.

"You have to stay awake. We need to get something in your system." he pleaded.

She let out a broken laugh—bitter and tired.

"Does it really matter?"

"It matters to me." he said firmly.

"You might fall asleep and not wake up."