Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling owns everything I've ever wanted.
I shiver and draw my right arm tighter across my chest, still cradling my other, abused wrist against the crook of my neck, and flinch when my fingers press gently on a tender spot on my ribs. There'll be a bruise in the morning. Several, actually.
I consider getting up and closing the window, but don't want to wake the loathsome beauty I lie with my back to. Normally I wouldn't mind rousing him, but he's in a bad mood tonight, although he's already dealt with most of his anger. Besides, I always find the breeze soothing, after…
I squirm closer to the edge of the bed, hating the warmth of his breath on my neck. It fills me with the feeling of vulnerability he seems to find so endearing. My wrist twinges painfully and I gasp, wishing the healing potion would hurry the hell up.
For the hundredth time I think about running away, and almost laugh with the absurdity of the absent-minded pondering. Where could I go where he couldn't find me? No, he knows me too well to be incapable of locating me, and I know him too well to think he'll let me go without a fight. I also know that he's not really the problem. If I could just hold my tongue we'd be fine, if I weren't so stubborn, sarcastic…
I whimper as the healing potion starts to work, feeling ashamed that a tear still rolls down my cheek even after the countless times of being subjected to the vile mixture. I feel the splintered bone forcing itself back into its original shape and try not to look at it. I reach my good arm behind me, needing to feel the warmth of another person, and instead feel only the grazed knuckles of a hand as cold as ice.