Donaghan stared at the crumpled piece of paper for a long time after it had rolled to rest at his feet. He leaned down and picked it up, squeezing it resolutely in his hand as he sat down in the dark blue comforter next to Orion's. If he was going to speak to him, it might as well be now. The dread locked boy felt increasingly cowardly as each day passed and he hadn't yet worked the courage to say a word to his mate. But during Quidditch practice, it had become increasingly obvious that the other boy was far from the road to recovery and so he'd made his mind. To hell if Orion hexed him back to Dublin. At least he'd have tried to do something.

Donaghan tossed the newspaper in the fireplace and laid his broom and his worn beater's club on the ground near his chair. He gazed thoughtfully in the hearth as the magical ink burned bright green before looking back toward his yearmate.

"Orion, I..." he paused for a second, wondering what he could possibly say. It was painfully easy to spew forth a mountain of shite for a stranger, yet, he thought sadly, how hard it was to speak truthfully to a friend.

"I'm sorry," he added sincerely, aware that for all his good intentions, that was an excrutiatingly lame thing to say in such circumstances.

(Yay, wrong ID *headdesks*)