The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 8

To their mutual agreement, they didn't bother with dinner; Harry had never felt less hungry. And after they'd sat there awkwardly for a while in Harry's smallest living room, in silence, even though it was barely even nine o'clock, Malfoy stood up, to Harry's relief, picked up his bag and said, "Well, good night then."

Ah, the bag. Harry wondered, again, whether it contained three vials of poison – or four. "Aren't you going to introduce me to Sir Thuban Whatchamacallit?" Harry asked, just to watch Malfoy twitch.

"Sir Thuban Etamin," Malfoy said calmly, after he had, yes, twitched. "And no, you don't deserve it. See you tomorrow."

"Enjoy the taps!" Harry said to Malfoy's retreating back; Malfoy's retreating back rolled its eyes, and then vanished up the stairs.

Harry sat on the sofa for a while longer, staring at nothing and trying not to think about anything, in case he cracked and started – what? Crying? Screaming? He didn't think he would, particularly. Mostly he was just conscious of a very strong sensation that it wasn't fair. He'd sacrificed his childhood, and mostly he was fine with that, given everything that had happened, but was this really what he deserved? To be stuck in this limbo – not quite married, but not exactly not married either – and to someone who didn't much like him, and who wouldn't have chosen him as a potential partner if they were the last two people left on earth. Harry didn't often feel sorry for himself – he didn't see the point – but right now he couldn't help it. It . . . it sucked, it really did.

Well, Harry decided, sick of himself, sitting here sulking wasn't making him feel any better, and he doubted it would any time soon. So, even though it was early, he forced himself to stand up and go to bed. Hopefully, he thought, things would feel brighter in the morning.

^^^^^^

The wall clock didn't bong midnight, but that was only because it was Harry's clock and it had learned that if it wanted to remain a clock, rather than become shattered fragments of an ex-clock, it needed to remain silent as much as possible. Harry squinted over at it. The room was dark but not pitch black, the curtains wide and letting in shimmers of moonlight. "Time?" he said, through a yawn.

"Well past bedtime!" the clock replied in a whisper. "Shhhh."

Harry considered throwing a shoe at it, but then remembered it was a present from Arthur Weasley and decided to let it go. Why was it, he thought with irritation, sitting up in bed and scrubbing at his eyes, that people kept giving him timepieces as presents? OK, so this particular clock was one Mr Weasley had come across in official work hours, terrifying a Muggle family who hadn't expected their clock to start telling them off for eating chocolate too late at night, and he'd passed to Harry because it made him laugh, but even so! He was rarely ever late for anything. He was either on time, or . . . or he missed the meet-up entirely, he thought uncomfortably, because he'd been called away to work, or had remembered something work-related he really had to do, this minute, can't go out for that drink after all, so sorry. He supposed that had been happening more and more, recently, particularly now he didn't have Ginny to chivvy him along to all the awkward social events he didn't want to go to.

Harry lay back down in bed again and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't a very interesting ceiling, and the darkness in the room didn't make it more so. Maybe, he thought vaguely, he should get a man in to spell something on it. Some stars might be nice. Except . . . without his glasses, he wouldn't be able to see them properly. And then there was the fact that when he was in bed, he was usually asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. His job was tiring, and while he never really left his work behind, mentally speaking, it didn't keep him up at night worrying, either. This was the first time he could remember that he'd lain down in bed, closed his eyes and . . . not slept a wink.