The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 12

Harry woke, blearily, to a faint touch on his wrist, but he didn't move and the pressure vanished so quickly that he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. He didn't want to move, wasn't sure he could move. His back ached, his neck ached, his whole him ached. The sofa, he decided, was not a comfortable place to sleep. After a minute or so, though, the discomfort of his cramped position forced him up, and he stretched, wincing, and surveyed the empty room. He thought he could hear far-off clattering, but he ignored it, feeling discomfort twist in his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to seeing Malfoy again. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could avoid it for a very long time.

The very long time lasted a further four minutes, give or take. Malfoy slouched into the room, shoving the door open with his backside, his hands occupied by two mugs. "Here," he said, and unceremoniously shoved one at Harry, nearly spilling it into his lap.

Harry took it, and Malfoy set his own mug down on the coffee table, reaching out again to briefly touch Harry's hand and wave his wand in the direction of the kitchen. "If you smell fire, you'll know I didn't manage to turn the hob off again," he said, and then picked up his mug again and blew across its steaming surface. He still hadn't looked Harry in the eye.

Harry took a ginger sip of his drink. It was coffee, so strong it made him sigh with pleasure. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

Malfoy shrugged, still not looking at Harry, and took a sip of his own drink.

"We should talk about it," Harry suggested, because even though he didn't want to – there was nothing he wanted to do less – he'd learned it was usually better to get things over with than let them fester.

"No," Malfoy said. He didn't say it in a horrible way, but it was very firm. "Not now," he added, more awkward, and Harry decided to let it go.

They drank their drinks in silence, and then Harry stood up, stretching. "I'm going to go and have a wash," he said, and Malfoy nodded, staring into his empty mug. Malfoy was already neatly dressed, his hair well-brushed and bullied behind his ears. Harry didn't wait for a response, because that would be stupid, so he went straight to the bathroom, and once inside, the door shut, he halted, surprised by what he could see.

There, on the surface next to the sink, where Harry kept his toothbrush, was a black velvet bag, flat and empty. Next to it was a silver stand of vials. They, too, were empty, their tops removed and strewn carelessly across the surface. Malfoy had, Harry realised, poured all of the Dreamless Sleep away.

Harry wasn't sure what to make of this, exactly, while he brushed his teeth, and he still wasn't sure what to make of it while he padded back to his bedroom and quickly got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, pulling on a hoodie and shoving his feet into a pair of battered trainers. He wasn't sure if he should say something when he got back downstairs – something like why did you do that? would be a good start – but Malfoy clearly expected this revolutionary and insightful question, because he said, very quickly: "So, I thought today we could clean your disgrace of a house."

Of all the things that Harry had expected to come out of Malfoy's mouth, cleaning his house wasn't on the list. "It's not that dirty!" he objected. "It's only a bit of dust."

Malfoy gave him a level look. "It's so dusty, scarhead, that I'm surprised the dust hasn't evolved into a new and terrifying lifeform. Well, shall we?" He tugged off his outer-robe and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "Or are you too high and mighty, famous Harry Potter, to do a bit of household magic with me?" He wrinkled his nose as he looked Harry up and down. "You're already dressed for cleaning, I see."

Well, Harry wasn't having that. He couldn't roll up his sleeves, because he was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, but he straightened up and tried to look determined. "Yes, fine," he said, and tried to prepare himself for another long, hard day of not killing Malfoy.