Prologue adapted from an original story found here. Written 20th October 2004
Hermione wakes up, groaning. She can feel someone's hands on her waist. She can hear someone breathing right next to her ear. She tenses up, and feel the 'someone' themselves tense and slowly their hands loosening. She sighs in relief. She often forgets that he spends the nights. Sometimes she spends them in his. She doesn't mind.
She has first hand knowledge of how freaked he gets. She knows that his father was a good man, but she also knows that Lucious Malfoy isn't above scaring his son's five-year-old friends by shutting them in a cellar with a boggart for 3 days.
She finds this is the best solution. It's not as if there's a real problem with sleeping like this. Only the fact that her single bed is a bit too small; she's been meaning to transfigure it into a larger version. Though she does find it amusing to tally whom ends up on whom.
She had been so freaked out the first day of term. She and Blaise had tentatively said goodnight, and she hadn't been sure what to make of the quiet Slytherin. It had only been around midnight that the screams started. Yet when she had dared to open his door, they'd stopped abruptly. She spent the night fitfully sleeping in a chair by the fire that had spontaneously sparked awake during the night.
He'd found her there, indigo eyes wide and fearful as if he life was about to be forfeit, and the haunted look of a prisoner on death row. She'd questioned him, of course, it was only in her nature to do so and besides, she's found an amiable and knowledgeable spirit in him. He wasn't broken, just bruised.
Which was how she had found herself, first sleeping in the chair, until one night he'd carried her at some point and laid her next to himself in his bed, and she's woken up, her head supported by his chest and her limbs refreshed for the first time in days. It didn't matter whose bedroom they slept in; he just needed someone to be there, even if they weren't conscious.
They just have to make sure that they alternate whose room they occupy, making sure the opposite is mussed and 'slept in'. They don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Especially the frequent house elves, even Hermione had to admit that you never know what's going through an elves mind. She had shuddered to make her point.
She stretches, yawning, trying not to move. She can feel the rise and fall of his stomach as he tries to suppress the chuckles he deems necessary whilst watching her try and try and fail to look presentable.
Her hair is wild and untamed, eyes dull and eyelids trying vainly to stay open. Her pyjamas are mussed and altogether hers is the look of one who tried to study. Which is always futile when the other occupant is already sailing the boat to dreamland.
She turns belatedly to stare blurrily at the male who still has his arms draped over her upper torso. It seems that it is his turn to squish her. Luckily he isn't that heavy, being tall and slightly skinny. If it had been Harry or Ron, she would have suffocated; though why she would even be sleeping in the same bed as them isn't an idea she particularly wants to entertain this early in the morning.
As usual, Blaise looks great. The bags under his eyes of the first few days have disappeared, his eyes are curious, bright and laughing, and his sense of humour means that he is already twice as heavy as before, now that he knows that she knows he knows she is awake.
Luckily it's a Sunday. No reason to get up. She can just stay in bed, locked in his warm embrace – eh? - And regain her senses. Once those goals are reached, she will remember that it is not good to stay in bed willingly, even if she still has her clothes on and-...
Then he smiles and everything is all right.
Of course, the irony is, that she is know awake and the memories of last night have come flooding back to her, like seeing her most recent memories flash before her eyes, giving her a headache and bringing spots into her vision from where she has been staring at the fire.
Blaise has been watching her. Though he'd never admit it to anyone –even under veritiserum- except in a remote corner of his brain, in a percentage that he doesn't use. Yet the thought does have to travel through the sentient part of his brain, so he is aware all the same.
He likes to wake up early, and watch her sleeping; her face peaceful, not contorted, as he knows his must be like. He likes to feel her wrapped around him in the morning, sharing her warmth in the steadily colder nights.
Of course, there comes the time when inevitably she has to wake up. Normally it isn't a problem faking sleep. But after the night be fore's confusing events he deems it better to forgo that idea. Anyway, his hands are wrapped around her and he can feel the soft skin of her stomach, how could anyone fake sleep?
She's turned her head know, and her glazed gaze falls on Blaise. Her eyes take a while to focus on him and in that time he has started to blush, the flush contrasting on his Italian colouring.
It's amusing really. She starts to blush. He realises that the breeze that he could feel, drifting across his nose is really her breath. They are too close, much too close. He closes his eyes to steel himself. And with the added concentration drags himself backwards, out of bed, tripping over a pile of books and landing on his butt.
He finds the funny side of it though and warns Hermione of the dangers of getting out of bed.
He watches and she crawls, lithe like the cat she is, over the bed and dangles over the edge, back to the mattress, mop of hair dangling and she laughs upside down at him.
He can't resist the picture before him. Her skin is flushed, glowing and her eyes are dancing. He scampers – he doesn't do 'graceful'- over to her and seems as if to pounce. Hermione cringes and flinches, her muscles betraying her as they steady themselves for the weight of a tall 17-year-old boy to land unceremoniously on them.
Only the attack never happens, for he is captivated in the warm brown eyes of the nymph in front of him. Her curly brown hair all over the place, pyjamas loose and in many places undone. He doesn't peek though, except briefly down the neck of her shirt; he can't help that it's in his line of vision.
His gaze is drawn to the glossy plump lips that are open and grinning at him, the smile falters however when he leans down, closer until their noses are touching and her skin grates against the stubble that has taken the night to grow.
He kisses her softly, experimentally. Memories of last nights kiss come flooding back as if a dam has broken. The heat generated goes straight downwards. He's bewildered, moaning as her mouth opens a tad. He's hard as rock, and just from the innocent touch of her soft lips. It's confusing really. But he's not complaining.
He's too caught up in the sensations as her hair falls across his face, smelling faintly of orange and citrus. As her hands defy gravity to caress his scalp, weaving themselves into his dark, curls. As his hands move down her torso to grip her waist, to stroke her hips possessively.
There's a buzzing in his ears. He stops to gasp for life saving air, and rests his forehead against her neck. He helps her sit up and swivels her round to face him, thumb brushing her lips, eyes seeking answers in the depths of her gaze.
She's straightening her top when the door bangs open forcefully.
Draco Malfoy is standing there as if he owns the world. His smirks falters and turns to horrified and stunned disbelief. Blaise raises himself slowly, as if he has a heavy bulk to shift and pads over to him. He claps a hand on the shorter, broader teenagers shoulder and swiftly turns him round and marches him out of the door, doubtless to lecture him in the soft agonising tone of his, on the importance of knocking on closed doors.
It is a while before he comes back, shutting the door with a soft click, before falling back into bed. He's weary from arguing with the pureblood teen that will not accept any new mandates even from his best friends, even if they are common courtesy.
He sighs, curling up around Hermione, her fingers soothing his back muscles. He turns his head and smiles warmly at her, relaxed at last, his nightmare has been vanquished until sunset.
Hers is just beginning. Around noon, both tense before hearing a yell as the Slytherin house begins their pounding upon the door. Thankfully Sir Cadogan is not very persuasive and is very tetchy. They hear shouts of pain and they both grin.
Revenge is sweet, especially when you have a veteran knight willing to joust.