The last thing Draco remembered, it had been his birthday. He'd gone to sleep in his bed, surrounded by soft pillows and a downy duvet, the windows slightly cracked to let a wonderful breeze cut through the June warmth. He had been happier than he'd been in a long time, just glad that his immediate family had survived the war to make it to his 18th; that the party hadn't been filled with dozens of his acquaintances and hadn't been the party of the season didn't even bother him. He'd gone to sleep content and full of cake and hors d'oeuvres and the knowledge that his parents loved him, strange and awkward as some things still were.
By that logic, he would wake up in that same bed, surrounded by soft pillows and a downy duvet, the window probably still open since he couldn't rely upon a house-elf to shut it when it got too cold. But apparently this morning wouldn't follow that logic, because he woke up shivering, his face pressed against sand instead of a pillow. There was nothing pleasant about any of this, and that was just his initial response. He hadn't even gotten to the stinging cuts marring his skin, nor the fact that his mouth tasted like rank chalk, nor the fact that everything was uncomfortably sticky.
He sat up slowly, spitting out traces of sand that still clung to his tongue, and wrinkled his nose distastefully, glowering around the apparently empty beach. It was both a blessing and a curse: on one hand, he didn't fancy anyone seeing him like this, but on the other hand, Draco had no idea where the hell he was, and he'd rather like someone to yell at about that fact.
Something about the idea of yelling at someone made him feel better, and he made a mental note to do so with the first person who came by.
Draco Malfoy | Harry Potter | 01
By that logic, he would wake up in that same bed, surrounded by soft pillows and a downy duvet, the window probably still open since he couldn't rely upon a house-elf to shut it when it got too cold. But apparently this morning wouldn't follow that logic, because he woke up shivering, his face pressed against sand instead of a pillow. There was nothing pleasant about any of this, and that was just his initial response. He hadn't even gotten to the stinging cuts marring his skin, nor the fact that his mouth tasted like rank chalk, nor the fact that everything was uncomfortably sticky.
He sat up slowly, spitting out traces of sand that still clung to his tongue, and wrinkled his nose distastefully, glowering around the apparently empty beach. It was both a blessing and a curse: on one hand, he didn't fancy anyone seeing him like this, but on the other hand, Draco had no idea where the hell he was, and he'd rather like someone to yell at about that fact.
Something about the idea of yelling at someone made him feel better, and he made a mental note to do so with the first person who came by.