forced | d.m.

22.cold

April '01 | H E R

That same evening, after an hour long shower that seemed impossible to leave and a dinner at her parents she simply went through the motions with, distracted, Althea finds herself in the atelier. Her safe haven.

Well, one of them.

She has to keep her hands busy and decided to tackle the mess. Starting with the outside may help deal with the inside. Maybe.

She could laugh.

What a perfect timing for him to be absent. Now it's on her not to go down a spiral that would be hard to recover from.cBecause he has the answers to questions that seem to burn themselves into her brain. Questions that will without a doubt hold her awake at night.

She forbids herself to cry. Forbids herself to make too many conclusions. There is a slight off chance that Astoria might have been fucking with her. Which would mean she caught Althea's bluff.

Not that it matters. From now on, she'll steer clear of that witch before she does things she'll regret. Like right now, she steers clear of obvious reminders of Draco—so atelier.

If the reminder of him sitting on the settee holding a glass between his knees pops up, she ignores it.

Work. I have work.

Every artwork from the exhibition has been sold or is in process of being sold, meaning her workspace has been drastically cleared. Only random paintings on the smaller scale are scattered around, more than half unfinished.

She sorts paint stored on and possible surface. Dried up from new ones, acrylic from oil. Her brushes are deep cleaned and laid out to dry. Fresh canvases are starked against walls and on windowsills. She sweeps, she dusts, she moves some stuff around—all manually instead of letting magic do it like usual.

She walks all around the place, checks her calender and double checks it, making an entry for the next job request she got middle of April. Hopefully that one doesn't have the nasty surprise of turning her life upside down.

Something in her purse beeps. Her heart stops. It stops for the entirety it takes her to reach it and find out that it was Bonnie sending her message. Fucksake.

With a double check she confirms that nothing else came through.

Call him, the reasonable voice says. He'll deny what was said. He'll tell you goodnight. He'll tell you he misses you.

And right then, that ounce of doubt that flared through her is what she makes her nose burn, her throat clog up. She hates that Astoria got to her and that Draco is only reinforcing it by not sending a message. By not calling himself.

Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

Hours later, she drags herself to the bedroom before she is sure she's going to collapse, gritting her teeth at the lingering scent of his cologne and opens a window. The night still has some bite to it and she welcomes it.

Althea drags herself onto the bed, not bothering to get under the covers and with her hands on her stomach, pointedly ignoring the place next to hers, stares up at the ceiling.

Stares up at the ceiling for so long, she nearly falls in manic ceiling painting.
He mentioned the ceiling painting.

But whatever would come out of her imagination would only be questionable.

And from then on, her mind goes down a dangerous, foreseeable route, wondering what he is up to. What he's thinking about. Who he's wi—

Nope. Not going there.