REBEL

12. LACQUER BLACK

12. LACQUER BLACK

I've never been so cold.

Not in fourth year, when I froze my arse off in my periwinkle colored Yule Ball dress after escaping from the Great Hall to the grounds so Ron wouldn't see my tears. Not during our Horcrux hunt, when I took over the night watch on the ice-encrusted soil of the Forest of Dean in front of our magical tent. Not even in the dungeon where Greyback and Scabior kept me prisoner.

No, I've certainly never been this cold.

In contrast, something around me is all the warmer. It feels heavy, yet cosy. Solid. Safe. With a calm breathing that moves the fine hairs on the back of my neck and a steady heartbeat that pounds powerfully against my shoulder blades.

Breathing. Heartbeat.

I tear my eyes open in alarm. Despite the unconsciousness from which I have just emerged, I immediately understand what kind of situation I am in. I can rely on my senses, however weakened they may be.

What I see? Grey concrete walls in a dim light. A linoleum floor that looks very familiar. Pure white sheets. The long, slender fingers of two large hands resting on these same sheets. And surprise: they don't belong to me.

Conclusion: I'm in the trauma room at Camp Black, or to be more precise, in one of the countless cots. A second person is lying behind me in my cot. This person is holding me in their arms — more or less, anyway.

What I hear? The aforementioned calm breathing.

Conclusion: The person behind me is asleep or about to fall asleep.

What I smell? A scent that I've only enjoyed a few times before, at least in this intensity, and that I like so much that it gives me shivers that have nothing to do with the cold.

Conclusion of all sensory impressions and previous conclusions combined: Draco Malfoy is lying (most likely fast asleep) behind me in my cot, holding me in his arms.

I probably could have come to this result without analyzing the 'unfamiliar' hands and his fantastic scent first. Because apart from him, I can't think of anyone else who would have the balls to get that close to me, especially without obtaining my express consent first. His palms aren't touching me, but there's still enough physical contact, and that's dangerous. Any other man would have had my wand at his throat or my fist in his solar plexus long ago. With Malfoy, however—

I wait for my flight instinct to kick in, but what happens is... nothing.

There's not even a hint of my usual panic when it comes to closeness and touching. Just this pleasant warmth radiating from his body and seeping through our clothes into my skin. (And the faint desire to steal more of it.)

I pull myself together and slowly turn around in his arms.

Malfoy is actually asleep. His eyes are closed, his features relaxed and his lips slightly parted. As I slowly scoot closer to absorb as much of his body heat as possible, I let my gaze roam curiously over his face. Over his dark blond eyebrows, his long eyelashes, his straight nose and the five o'clock shadow on his cheeks. I only know him clean-shaven, which leads me to believe that he must have been here for a while. Gosh, how long have I been knocked out?

A glance at his mouth elicits a soft sigh from me, and then, when I finally remember what happened before I fell unconscious, my heart begins to flutter.

Malfoy is alive. He survived the battle in Hogsmeade. My Protego did its job and saved him. And now he's here, with me, keeping me warm.

Even though I don't know how this situation came about, the slightly delayed realization regarding his integrity does things to me that I cannot and do not want to name. I even have to resist the strong urge to press my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in even deeper.