𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

Chapter 10

Morning came and with it Draco's protests of it being far, far too early to wake. The two had stayed up late into the night, talking little but touching often. Edward hadn't wanted to pressure Draco into unburdening himself, especially as he was still unbelievably grateful the wizard had returned at all. He could leave again and decide not to come back for good this time, and that was the last thing Edward wanted.

Unlike many humans he'd known over the years, Draco wasn't given to unnecessary chatter, so the silence was comfortable. Edward appreciated his pensive demeanor—it was another thing they had in common—though of course he craved to learn the thoughts masked by those impenetrable grey eyes.

Draco murmured again and tucked his head into the crease between Edward's arm and the pillow. It must have been rather uncomfortable, given that Edward's arm was as pliable as stone.

"Good morning," Edward said. He'd kept vigil all night without indulging himself with a glimpse of Draco's dreams. The protectiveness he'd felt had increased a hundred-fold since they'd had sex—even if that meant defending Draco from himself. Perhaps especially. He remembered the feel of Draco's skin against his own, the barely restrained urge to bite. True, he hadn't bitten. But he could have.

"It bloody well isn't good," came the muffled retort.

"It is for me," Edward said, lifting his arm. Draco squinted up at him and Edward leaned down, brushing his lips across the other's forehead before hopping out of bed. He didn't want to make Draco uncomfortable by being too affectionate in the light of day.

"And why's that?" The blond sat up and pulled the covers around him. The fire had died in the night and needed stoking.

"Oh, no reason." He shrugged, bent over the grate, and added a log. "Perhaps because it's Christmas." Of course that was only part of the truth. Draco would be staying at least for another day.

"Hmm. I suppose it is."

When Edward turned around, the wizard seemed lost in thought. The dark circles under his eyes had lightened, but they still made his face look tired. And too thin. Edward realized with chagrin that he had no food to offer. That is, unless Draco had a penchant for venison, which he very much doubted.

"Draco?"

At the sound of his name, Draco shook his head as if to clear it. Then his eyes met Edward's, flashing dangerously before the shutters closed.

"Right. Christmas. I suppose we should do something to celebrate then, shouldn't we?"

"I suppose we should."

Draco swung his legs around and reached for his trousers. His tousled hair made Edward grin, recalling how it had become so disarrayed. A tightening in Edward's pants announced his cock remembered, too.

"Accio satchel." At Draco's words, the bag he'd brought whisked through the air and landed gracefully on the bed beside him. He peered inside and flicked his wand hand, murmuring Latin under his breath. Edward watched with barely concealed wonder as several small objects rose into the air, growing larger as Draco muttered a second incantation.

In a matter of minutes, the cabin was transformed—paintings, one Edward recognized as the work of Brueghel—adorned the previously barren walls. Another of them seemed reminiscent of Hieronymus Bosch, but he'd never seen the particular print before.

"They were wizards," Draco said by way of explanation. "Didn't you know?"

Edward shook his head, wondering whether the paintings were real or facsimiles. If the former, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"You'd be surprised how many wizards have been mistaken for Muggles of genius over the years."

"I guess so. Shakespeare?"