Out of Time

Chapter 42

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

"Good morning," she hears when she cracks open her eyes.

They're facing each other in the tiny bed, legs tangled together. Her head is tucked under his chin and he must have felt her eyelashes blink open against his neck. She looks up at him, soaking in the unique musky scent that's just him, and he kisses her lightly on the forehead. "Happy Christmas."

For a flash of a second, it really feels like one. What if they were in bed together on the other side of the world, waking up together like this? Positioned like they are, she can't tell how big the bed is. Maybe it's a luxurious king size with decadent pillows and four layers of pristine blankets and comforters to keep cosy warm. She'd be wrapped around him like this either way.

Then she remembers. "How's Harry?" she whispers and a quick look of hurt flashes across his face.

"Quiet. Hasn't made much noise."

"Harry?" she calls over in a loud whisper and gets nothing back. She'll check on him soon but if he's getting quality rest, she'll leave him be. Draco has no patience for it now anyway, his hands sliding up her ribs and proving a capable distraction.

"What are you doing? Your fingers are so cold," she whisper-laughs, trying to wriggle away. He won't let her. He pulls the pile of blankets up over them both, rearranging the mismatched edges and lumps so they're covered from heads to toes in a patchwork of weight. At least one falls off the bunk but neither of them can reach it and she figures they don't really need it anyway.

"We'll warm up."

With his wand, he casts a mild levitation charm so the blankets form a bit of a cave, giving them some room and draping down the sides. He can't go too high without letting in cold air, but the light filtering through (brighter where there are fewer layers, almost none at all over the thickest parts) combined with the pillows resemble the forts she used to make with her dad as a little girl.

The only difference is Draco kissing the tip of her nose.

"I have a surprise," he declares, fumbling something up from down by his feet.

"Wait, wait," she hastily begs. "Silence Harry's bunk first."

If this is headed where she suspects, she won't be able to relax. Irritation crosses Draco again before he concurs, nodding almost to himself, and then vanishes.

She claps a hand to her mouth, stifling giggles. She can admit she didn't see that component coming out to play. Not today. Not in this tent at all, in fact. One of his ankles is poking out, but that doesn't really make a difference. Her pyjama bottoms start tugging themselves down and she stops him again.

"This doesn't really count, you know."

His head reappears. "What the hell do you mean, 'this doesn't count'? It counts!"

Primly, she looks down at him, hoping she's still malnourished enough to avoid a triple chin. His grey eyes shine and the look of mischief on his face is most often seen on Fred or George Weasley - who have no place intruding into this little bunk. "I know you're under there. That's all."

Draco blinks through this. "So... you want me to surprise you while wearing the cloak?"

The implications of that settle over her. That could have significant boundary issues if she has no earthly idea when or where it could be coming. Draco waits this out, fiddling with the drawstring of her bottoms.