The chilly air is making his skin break out in goosebumps down his arms and across his bare chest, which is not without its own scars; slashes and nicks that have faded into silvery scars crisscross here and there. An angrier looking scar, with frayed edges, streaks down his left shoulder blade. Old wounds from his Death Eater days, and even older wounds from his bleak and turbulent childhood.
The chill running through him is accompanies with a chill running down his spine at the thought of Bellatrix and the things he knew Bellatrix had done to her. Her craziness could have been ignored if she hadn't been so dangerous. That she'd tortured Granger fills him with disgust, even more so these days since he's come to strangely care so much about her, but that word Bellatrix had carved on Granger's arm is what sickens him the most.
At her seemingly hesitant remark about the nightmares being more under control since staying with him, he cuts his eyes across to her. He studies her profile, that familiar jut of her chin, the slender slope of her neck, the way her hair is falling down around her face. His right hand letting go of his wand, he hesitates, then stretches his arm across to her and brushes her hair back from her face with his fingers, over her shoulder.
He drops his hand away again, palm resting on the bed. "Dreams are harder to control than thoughts and emotions," he says, "but with enough practice, one can learn to control one's dreams. Or, at the very least, manage them. It does, however, take discipline. Perhaps I might be able to teach you."
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The chill running through him is accompanies with a chill running down his spine at the thought of Bellatrix and the things he knew Bellatrix had done to her. Her craziness could have been ignored if she hadn't been so dangerous. That she'd tortured Granger fills him with disgust, even more so these days since he's come to strangely care so much about her, but that word Bellatrix had carved on Granger's arm is what sickens him the most.
At her seemingly hesitant remark about the nightmares being more under control since staying with him, he cuts his eyes across to her. He studies her profile, that familiar jut of her chin, the slender slope of her neck, the way her hair is falling down around her face. His right hand letting go of his wand, he hesitates, then stretches his arm across to her and brushes her hair back from her face with his fingers, over her shoulder.
He drops his hand away again, palm resting on the bed. "Dreams are harder to control than thoughts and emotions," he says, "but with enough practice, one can learn to control one's dreams. Or, at the very least, manage them. It does, however, take discipline. Perhaps I might be able to teach you."