The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 7

Half an hour later, back in Kingsley's office, Harry had eaten three bacon sandwiches, drunk another two cups of coffee and watched in amused horror as an Unspeakable with a special interest in visual magic tried to force a reluctant Malfoy to try on a pair of glasses – and lost. He was less amused when Malfoy tried to reject what Harry thought was an ingenious solution – Muggle-style contact lenses, which, the Unspeakable explained with uncomfortable enthusiasm for his specialist subject, could be worn 24/7 without discomfort and could be spelled to adapt to Malfoy's differing prescription: transparent when his eyesight was perfect, and refractive when it wasn't.

Harry wasn't sure if Malfoy's objection was that the lenses were Muggle in origin, or if he was just a massive ingrate who wanted to be difficult, so he asked. Out loud.

Malfoy glared at him. Blurrily. "Fuck off," he said, which didn't enlighten Harry either way.

"Oh, let's leave it then," Harry said, irritated. "I mean, someone's bound to notice sooner or later that you can't see properly any more, but it won't look at all suspicious that you suddenly need glasses, I agree. We can just tell them it's the blinding power of love, right?"

Malfoy turned to the Unspeakable and accepted the contact lenses without another word. Harry tried not to feel smug, and hoped this easy victory wouldn't come back to bite him later.

Harry soon discovered, though, that there was a downside to getting things done quickly. As soon as Malfoy had managed to get the contact lenses on his eyeballs without poking his eyes out, although he'd pulled faces while he did it that suggested he was being tortured, he blinked away the tears in his eyes and said, with what Harry felt was an unhealthy level of Schadenfreude, "Shall we go and see Blaise now, then?"

"Yes, fine," Harry said, trying to sound as if he was happy to.

Malfoy almost smiled, which Harry thought was unkind, but, given Malfoy's slightly red eyes, possibly deserved.

"I hope Zabini doesn't think I've been making you cry," Harry said, to get his own back.

Malfoy gave him an odd look, and Harry remembered the last time he'd seen Malfoy cry. Malfoy had tried to Crucio him, and he'd nearly cut him in half in response. Had he ever said sorry, properly, for that? He didn't think so. But then Malfoy hadn't apologised for the almost-Crucio either, he thought with some heat, so maybe they were even.

"Whatever you're thinking about, stop it," Malfoy said, and Harry gaped at him. Malfoy gaped back, in an unkind imitation, and then shrugged. "You're really easy to read, scarhead. You're pulling a face, so I can tell you're brooding about something stupid. So – stop it."

Harry considered this, and thought it fair enough, so he closed his mouth on the shirty response he nevertheless felt compelled to make. The silence continued as they made their way down to Level 9 and the Department of Mysteries, and to their – well, to Harry's – Zabini-shaped doom. Harry didn't reach for Malfoy's hand, and Malfoy didn't reach for his either, but their elbows kept bumping. It was a companionable silence rather than a shitty one, Harry thought. It was just a shame that it was only them that was silent, really. First the corridors, and then the lift, were packed, and although no one spoke directly to Harry, he could hear them muttering excitedly about him – about them – as soon as he'd passed. He wondered if he should send out an interdepartmental memo at some point, reminding people that if they were going to talk about someone behind their back, they should wait until the owner of the back couldn't bloody well hear them.

In some senses it was a relief to finally make it to the Department of Mysteries and be ushered through the carefully-guarded jet black door, because at least it cut down on the number of gawpers. Besides, the department attracted, in general, a certain . . . type of witch and wizard. Intellectual, curious, imaginative and – well – slightly odd, if Harry was being honest. They were the sort of people who didn't mind that they couldn't tell their friends what they did all day, because not only did they not have many friends outside of work, but they also didn't tend to leave the office very often either. Obsessive was the word. Harry liked almost all of them. What they'd done, as a group, to deserve having to put up with Zabini all day, he thought as Zabini turned a smooth, smug cheerful expression on him and actually waved, the fucker, he had no idea.