Congratulations, I Still Hate You

13

Draco's POV

I hadn't wanted to wake.  Aside from the morphine-induced sleep I'd experienced a few months ago, this was most pleasant sleep I'd ever known.  But she'd stirred against me, her bottom shifting and pressing, and arousal began tugging at the threads of lucidity.

I played dead as her fingertips began tracing lightly on my skin - first on my hand, then my arm.  A movement here, a sound there.  I had only seconds left to leave the bed before my impending erection would betray my awareness.

"Stop," I admonish gently, intercepting her hand on its way behind her back.  "You flirted with death today but you're not flirting with me."

She pulls my hand away but only so she can roll over and reach for me.  I've nearly convinced myself that one last fuck doesn't have to mean anything when the memory of her saying goodbye sobers me up.  I roll out of bed and hurry to find something dry and warm to put on.  I can feel the weight of her stare on my back but I don't turn around.

"Now that you're not dying, I want you dressed and back downstairs in a few minutes.  We only have to stay out of each other's way for another day or two and then the roads-"

"It's no problem," she interrupts.  "I just need something to put on and I'll do what you ask."

"Help yourself," I say as I exit.  

I go downstairs and use the kitchen phone to call the nearest police station to alert them about a stranded motorist.  They take down what information I have and then the answering constable repeats her name a couple of times to himself.

"Is she from around here?"

"No, she's from London.  Excuse me but can you give me an estimate on when someone could get out here to set her car back onto the road?  I'm letting her stay here for now but I'll feel better knowing how long I'm looking at her being here for."

"I shouldn't think a couple of days, probably can have somebody out there tomorrow."

"Good," I replied cryptically, "the sooner the better."

I hang up the phone and stare across the room, mentally counting the hours until morning.  It's going to be a long night.

----

I'd read in my room all night nearly, only catching a short nap as daylight was finally breaking over the trees.  When I dressed and went downstairs, I found Mark and only Mark in the kitchen.

"Don't tell me she's made another go at it?"

"No, she's in the study."

My brows furrow, as if there's some catch I'm not aware of.  

"Just like that?  No troublemaking, no snooping, no nothing?"

"Is that not what you wanted?"

"It's exactly what I wanted," I reply, shooting him a firm look.  

I make myself a cup of tea and glance down the hallway as I pass.  The door to the study is open but I hear nothing but the sound of my pants rustling and my warm slippers lightly scraping the wood floor.  I go back upstairs to drink my tea and read in my room, and leave my door open so that I can hear whatever's going on downstairs.  

As morning turns to afternoon, the eerie silence in the house begins to bother me.  I put down my book and begin to wander restlessly around the first floor.  From room to room, I float around, listening for any movement or voices downstairs.  It's what I'd wanted, but now it seemed that the quiet could be deafening.  I find myself wanting to pick a fight instead of savoring the silence and make my way downstairs again and to the study.

I find her seated on the chesterfield sofa - the most uncomfortable thing in the house to sleep on, apart from the floor - with her purse next to her and a leather book of some sort in her lap.  I deduce it's a journal, as she's writing in it with a pen.  Either she's unaware of my presence or unconcerned.  The latter bothers me so I go with the former.  

I rap my knuckles on the doorframe to announce myself but she doesn't startle.  Instead, she slowly looks up, and then only makes eye contact for a second.  

"Hello," she says softly, and then goes back to her writing.

"There's soup in the refrigerator.  Help yourself."

"Thank you but I'm not hungry."

I hadn't wanted her to invade my space upstairs so I don't invade hers.  I remain at the doorway and try again to provoke.

"I spoke with a local constable on the phone last night.  He said he should be able to get someone out here to fetch your car today or, tomorrow at the latest."

"Thank you for checking into it."

"I see Mark laundered your clothing."

"He did.  If I don't see him again, please thank him for me."

I mumble an affirmative response and then shift my weight from one foot to another as she continues to write.  Our time is running out for one last verbal brawl and yet I find myself stewing with impotent anger.  As if sensing this, her pen pauses and she glances up.  Her eyes barely meet mine, as though I'm not important or worthy of her time or attention.

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

"I think we've said enough, haven't we?"

"Then why are you here, watching me?"

"My apologies," I say curtly.  "I'll leave you to it then."

"Great," she says beneath her breath.

As she looks down and resumes her writing, my temper rises again.  I leave the study feeling dissatisfied and embarrassed that I'd accomplished nothing.  I'm down in the wine cellar, angrily reorganising bottles when I hear voices upstairs.  All I want at this moment is to be left alone, so I continue with my tedious project.  When I emerge a while later, the house is quiet.  It feels...different.

I have no rehearsed reason for showing up in the doorway again but I decide I'll take my chances.  As it turns out, there's no need.  The room is empty, and the pillow and blankets, along with her things, are absent.  I call out for Mark but he doesn't reply.  Aggravated, I begin a search that takes me to the other end of the ground floor to his quarters.  I find him reclining in his old leather chair with headphones over his ears.  His eyes are closed and I'm hesitant to disturb him, but there's a gnawing feeling that needs answers.  

I enter the room and tap the arm of his chair, and step back as he removes the headphones. His brows lift questioningly but he waits for me to ask the obvious question.

"Is she gone?"

"About an hour ago.  That constable you spoke with, apparently, he made good on his promise and sent someone out here for some assistance.  He gave her a lift to her car, said it was on the road and waiting for her."

"Oh," I say casually, scratching awkwardly at my chin.  "Well, good.  That settles it."

"Yes, I believe so sir."

There's a loaded pause where neither of us speaks.  I stand there in a stupor for a moment and then tell him goodnight on my way out.  The house suddenly seems very big - desolate, even. 

I ease down onto the chesterfield where she'd been sitting earlier and detect the faint trace of something floral.  Whether shampoo or soap or perfume, it's pleasing.  I close my eyes, bow my head, and attempt to grapple with the chaos she's left behind in her wake.  

When will it ever end?