Limerence; Draco Malfoy

Chapter Fifty-Six: Prophet

Violet

I'd awoken in many odd locations in my lifetime before now: hospital wings, airport lounges, in bathtubs and in emerald green four poster beds; I'd also awoken to find myself curled up in the lean arms of Draco Malfoy on many a strange occasion, too.

Yet in the early hours of that boxing day morning, it's safe to say I didn't feel any different from how I felt the first time I woke up beside him: shocked - and secretly relieved.

On this occasion, it also felt hard to breathe, but that was because Draco was sleeping on his back, therefore taking up half the sofa and crushing me between him and the velvet cushions.

I clawed my way out, gasping for air, resting my hands on his chest whilst I gazed down at his peaceful, sleeping expression.

How had we even ended up here, in the living room? I glanced at the clock on the mantel piece -- six AM.

I hadn't the faintest glimmer of a memory from last night, and I didn't understand how Christmas day had flown by so quickly either. We'd been in the basement entertaining ourselves in the room with the red lights -- I knew that much. And I could remember every small, breath taking detail right up until. . .

Right up until I'd asked him to slap me.

I would've liked to think I hadn't asked him to do that.

But the stinging sensation on my cheek -- and in between my thighs -- was all the evidence I needed. Disturbed at my strange loss of memory, I managed to sooth my racing heart by feeling the steady pulse of Draco's heartbeat from underneath where my hands rested, admiring his tranquillity.

I wasn't able to hover and stay admiring for long, because he suddenly gave a irritable grumble and pushed me -- fiercely -- in his sleep.

Falling off the sofa I went, landing on the carpet with a bone-rattling thud and a muffled shriek.

I cursed. Sat up and rubbed my bruised knee. Lifted my hoodie up (had he dressed me?) so I could inspect the damage.

Both of my knees had bruises forming on them.

Sighing, I tugged his hoodie back down, then glanced up at him: he had one arm dangling off the edge of the sofa; the shadows from the fire flickered and danced over his dark mark. A sudden urge had struck me: I wanted to ask him where the kitchens were, since I was dying for a glass of water.

But his breathing was slow and steady and he appeared in a sleep so deep and peaceful, that I didn't have the heart to wake him.

I decided I would just have to locate them myself.

Only once I'd left the cosy living room and had stepped out into the freezing cold, marble hallway, did I start to rethink my plan.

The Hall was terrifying, at night.

I didn't back down - refused to - instead forcing my feet into walking on, and on, and on - on to where closed, wooden doors at either side of the shadowed corridor dared me to enter. Ignoring the crawling sensation of paranoia at the back of my neck, I reached and pulled the handle down to the nearest door. An empty office.

Next door down. A storage cupboard. Next door down. Locked. Next door down and - oh, the relief! A bright kitchen already with its welcoming lights on, greeted me. I went in; made my way straight to the fridge. Because I was rather hungry as well, come to think of it.

I didn't take a proper look around, figuring my eyes would only start playing tricks on me, leading me to believe that there was a shadowed figure lurking in the corner. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed on my target -- the fridge -- and started towards it.