Spectre: The Dark Riddles #1

42: Doxy

"Doxies--tiny fairy-like creatures--have black hair all over their bodies and an additional set of arms and legs. Although petulant in their behavior, as seen in their tendency to infest house draperies, they can be dispatched with Doxycide, a Knockback Jinx, or your friendly neighborhood Venomous Tentacula will happily take them off your hands. Fun fact: Newt Scamander—a prestigious magizoologist of the early twentieth century and an inspirational hero of mine—was rumored to keep a small herd of doxies in his trunk during his travels to America in the later 1920s."

--from the journals of Elastra N. Malfoy, 1999

***

SEPTEMBER 1997

I wake from a dream about half-lives and greyish shadows to find myself safe, cocooned within the arms of the man I love. Warmth envelopes me. He's still asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow succession, his face youthful in its relaxed state. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but the circles under his eyes seem to be fading already. Wanting to remain in this peaceful quiet, I just lay there, my head resting over his heartbeat, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his stomach.

I'd imagined snuggling up with him like this dozens of times. His muscular frame is lean, and so I always thought it would feel a bit like lying on top of a snowboard or sled—stiff, maybe even cold. But it's comfortable and warm, like the world's best pillow and a guard dog mixed into one. I don't ever want to leave this moment.

Something catches my eye. We'd fallen asleep above the bed sheets, and when I glance down at his legs, there's nothing to hide the tent in his pants.

Desire pools in the pit of my stomach, spreading heat throughout my body. I want to touch him. I want to know what he would feel like in my hands, in my mouth. But my fingers move only a few centimeters down his naval before I stop myself. It feels wrong to do it like this, while he's sleeping, while he can't tell me if he wants this or not. Part of me wants to satisfy my curious desires anyways—I've waited long enough, haven't I?—but then his breathing quickens and he begins to move.

I pull back, pretending to have slept on my side of the bed the entire time.

Sleepy blue eyes blink at me. He calls my name, not like he needs to get my attention, but like he enjoys the sound of it, the way the vowels feel against his lips. Elastra, Elastra, Elastra. It sounds like I love you, I love you, I love you.

More of that wishful thinking, probably.

"What's wrong?" he asks when the fog of sleep has lifted.

"Nothing."

"Why are you over there?"

"I..." I try to make sense of the question. "You like it when I keep to my side."

He shows his disapproval by pulling me against his chest once more. With one hand on the small of my back, he curls the other around my thigh and draws my leg over his hips. My heartrate skyrockets.

"Tom..." I think even a deaf man could hear the longing in my voice. My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt—something soft and flexible, like tweed, with buttons down the front and sleeves rolled to his elbows. I distract myself with thinking that only Tom Riddle would take a nap in a suit, making it a point not to look past his waist again, even though I know what I'll find straining against the zipper of his pants, even though it's all I can think about. "A-are you tired still?"

"No." He sounds wide awake.

"What are you thinking?" I ask after a moment of silence.

"You don't want to know."