Pureblood Chapter 9.

The first thing he became aware of was warmth. He shifted himself deeper into the feather tick. The brightness told him that it was daylight without even opening his eyes, and he felt no desire to do so. He was so comfortable and at peace. He almost never slept soundly, and he wanted to enjoy the luxury of feeling well rested. He could hear faint insect and bird sounds from outside the window. Sometime early in the morning Deborah must have gotten up and opened it a couple of inches because he could smell cut grass and more faintly, roses. There was a bowl of dried herbs on her dresser, and he could also smell cinnamon, oranges, and something lemony. Balm, perhaps, or lemongrass? He smiled to himself. So perfect. A cool breeze from the window felt wonderful on his face.

She was using his shoulder for a pillow, one of her arms lay across his chest. How does anyone ever get tired of this? he wondered. Feeling Deborah's breath on his neck, the weight of her arm on his body-it was an incredible sensation. The ordinary experience of waking up with someone who cared about him was so foreign. Every slight shift of her body brought an exquisite sense of closeness. He had been so starved for touch for so long. Her bent knee lay slightly on top of one of his thighs. The degree of pleasure he was feeling from this small intimacy astounded him.

And then the memory of the night returned, and his face began to burn with mortification. He had been exposed, more exposed that if he had been stripped and kicked into the hall. She knew his disgusting secrets. How many more wretched things had she discovered but not mentioned? She had witnessed him bawling like a four year old. She had looked at his feelings toward Lily and called them a sick obsession with a dead woman that didn't want him. Emotional masturbation. It was a poisonous accusation, poisonous because at his core he knew that it reeked of truth. She must view him as some sort of pervert or as mentally ill. Maybe he was. She knew about the Death Eaters and would know of all of their vile amusements. She could probably picture his unwilling participation-no, she was an empath, she surely could. Fresh shame washed over him.

He would not be able to meet her eyes or to make small talk or be near her, knowing the repulsive things that she knew about him. It was too terrible to even think about what she was going to say to him when she woke. Last night, even communicated by thought, her words had said stung like the lash of a scourge, stung because they were true. He despised himself for acting like a coward but he could not bear the humiliation of facing her. He lay quietly, feigning sleep, until she went into the bathroom and he heard the tub being filled. And then Severus fled.