The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 18

Harry woke up in stages. The first thing he was aware of was the smell: clean and soapy, it was unfamiliar and yet familiar at the same time. Then feelings came back to him. Crisp, fresh linen, and crisp, fresh cotton against his skin. A hand in his. Now that was more familiar, but yet out of context. Had he ever woken up with Draco holding his hand before? He opened his eyes, and then wished he hadn't. He was lying in a bed in St Mungo's, although he didn't recognise the ward. Shit, he thought. Shit.

"Hello," Draco said, and he sounded like he'd been shouting. "You fucking scumbag," he added. "How's your head?"

It hurt. When Harry blinked, the world sort of squeezed, and then contracted, as if he'd been hit on the head with something very heavy.

Oh. He had been hit on the head with something heavy. He couldn't remember what though. Was it a car? Or had it been something else? He'd certainly dodged a car, thrown by an enraged wizard who, it seemed, had caught his Muggle girlfriend cheating on him. The wizard hadn't reacted well. Rowena had yelled at him to Disapparate and call in the Obliviators quick – and lots of them – so he'd turned, and . . . dodged a car. Or, hadn't dodged a car. Who knew. Certainly not Harry. He had a hole in his memory through which he could only see sky.

"How's your head?" Draco repeated.

"It hurts," Harry said. The light was very bright, and he closed his eyes again, squeezing Draco's hand.

Draco squeezed back. "Good."

Good? That wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "I'm sorry I was late back?" he tried, and then opened his eyes to see Draco glowering at him, as hard as if he'd stamped on a kitten.

"You're sorry you were late?" Draco said. "You're sorry you were late? I couldn't give a flying fuck that you were late! Mostly, I'm concerned about the fact you left your fucking office, despite everything we were told, to go out in the fucking field!"

"Oh," Harry said, wincing, more at the pain in Draco's face than at the pain in his head. "I'm all right though, aren't I?" Draco was very dressed up, Harry realised. As if he'd been about to go on a date. "What time is it?"

Draco's mouth went sour. "About ten o'clock."

"That's . . . not too bad," Harry said, even as he realised it was daylight filtering in through the window.

"In the morning!" Draco said. "I thought you were going to die!" He was holding on to Harry's hand now so tightly it hurt. "And – and you stood me up," he added, trying to smile, as if he was regretting what he'd just admitted.

"Bit of an extreme way to try to stand someone up, though," Harry said. "I don't recommend it." He tried to smile. "Besides, look on the bright side," he said, still feeling woozy and unfocused. Something flippant, horrible, that he didn't even know he'd been thinking, rose out of him. "If I died, at least you'd finally be out of the bond and you could marry Astoria, eh?"

The silence that followed was worse than when Draco, his face draining of colour, said, "You little shit. How dare you say something like that to me." But only just.

Draco hadn't gone white, Harry thought fuzzily. He'd gone grey, as if something vital was leaching out of him. "I – didn't think you thought so badly of me," Draco finally said, after another horrible silence. "I – thought that you might actually . . . How stupid am I?" He stood up as if all the fight had gone out of him, dropping Harry's hand and turning to leave the room.

Harry was panicking now, but on the inside, where Draco couldn't see it. OK, he'd said a stupid thing, but he hadn't meant it like that! It had been a joke! His head hurt. He tried to get up and wondered if he was going to be sick, but Draco was leaving and somehow this seemed like one of those important, defining moments in life. That if he let Draco walk out now, nothing would ever be right again, no matter how hard he tried to fix it.