The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 11

"Are we talking about it?" Harry asked awkwardly when he went downstairs to find Malfoy the next morning. He'd woken to an empty bed and a matching odd, empty feeling inside, as if something was missing.

Malfoy scowled at him. "About how terrible your hair looks this morning?" he said, by which Harry presumed he meant No, and then all but stamped over to him. "You've got a black eye," he said, scowling all the harder. "Hold still. I'm not great at healing magic, but people will think I hit you."

You did hit me, Harry didn't say. Instead, he held still, while Malfoy grabbed his chin with one hand and cast a clumsy healing spell with the other. It didn't feel much better, the flesh beneath his skin aching. "Did it work?"

Malfoy let go of him, and shrugged, his face pinched. "The bruise has gone," he said, and then turned away.

The bruise might have gone, but the pain still remained. And it was Friday, Harry realised. The day they would celebrate their wedding, before going off on honeymoon. It wasn't exactly what he'd dreamed of, as a child. But then he'd never really dreamed of anything much as a child, other than a blinding green light. It probably hadn't helped that he'd slept in a cupboard, he thought grimly.

Fuck Malfoy, Harry thought, feeling himself get a headache. If he wanted to be like this, then that was up to him. It wasn't like Harry was marrying him for real.

^^^^^^

They decided to get ready for the party in the Ministry, rather than back at Harry's, as had been the original plan. Kingsley had offered them a suite of meeting rooms he used for important guests, and Harry had agreed without asking Malfoy, thinking that Malfoy could do whatever the fuck he liked, as far as Harry was concerned.

It had been an arse of a day so far. Malfoy had been monosyllabic, and what monosyllables he'd come out with had been rude. Every time he said anything, anyway, all Harry could hear was him saying I really hate you, Harry, and how he'd obviously meant it. Well, I hate you too, Harry thought firmly, trying to remember how hating Malfoy had felt, and only managing to feel like complete shit instead. Disliking Malfoy was easy, but hate slipped away, every time he reached for it. Besides – he didn't want to hate Malfoy any more.

Harry had demanded to see Zabini again, to get some evidence that the arse-face had actually been doing some work on the bonding potion, and that had only made him feel worse. Zabini had been almost polite, clearly unnerved by Harry's genuine anger, and had assured him that they were working on a solution and could almost guarantee that in a week or so they'd be able to make a temporary magic bridge between him and Malfoy. Could almost. Temporary. It wasn't what Harry had wanted to hear. He wanted to be shot of Malfoy, not to be gearing up to smile at him in public. He'd had enough of Malfoy's unpredictability, his pointy face, his hair, his fucking Dark Mark, and the way he looked at Harry in the dark, and turned him on, and then punched him in the face and told him how much he hated him.

"I was only trying to help!" he burst out at Malfoy, in a temper, in front of a clearly bewildered and suspicious Robards, who was drilling them on possible escape routes from the Ministry if they found themselves under attack.

"Shut the fuck up," Malfoy said, and turned his back on Harry, which really helped him cheer up and feel a lot more enthusiastic about the evening ahead.

Harry and Malfoy dressed, by unspoken agreement, in separate rooms in Kingsley's guest suite. Harry took the main, over-furnished reception room and Malfoy the boardroom leading off it, with a large, central table and too many gold ornaments. He'd only managed to pull on his horrible robes, and was just sitting staring in sadness and disbelief at his horrible shoes, when Malfoy entered his room without knocking. Malfoy was already in his own horrible robe and shoes, and he didn't look horrible at all: he looked elegant, and put together, and Harry remembered how to hate him, for just a fraction of a second, before the moment passed.