The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 21

The wizarding media had by now not only found out where Harry lived, they'd also set up camp on his doorstep. And not just his doorstep; some invaded his back garden, while others sent up spells to hover above his roof, in the hopes they might be able to spot something entertaining happening in an attic or something. Harry didn't know. The level of activity around his home was so intense, the Muggle Prime Minister put in a formal complaint to the Minister of Magic, and Kingsley had to come round in his official capacity to try to get them to disperse.

They wouldn't. They knew there was a juicy story somewhere inside the house – something to do with Harry, and Draco, and magic, and accidents, and love, whether real or spelled. They weren't leaving until they knew the truth.

Harry found that, for once, he didn't particularly care what the press did, or said. He'd always found them intrusive and annoying, and tried his best to avoid them, but now they just didn't matter. He had other things on his mind. Draco had installed himself in the largest drawing room, where he ruled the house with an iron fist from his seat on a navy chaise longue, propped up against what seemed like every cushion and pillow ever made. It wasn't just Harry who had appeared to have become his personal house-elf though. Narcissa was there constantly, at Draco's beck and call, and to make it worse, it had been Harry himself who'd invited her. He'd invited Lucius too, but had added, "Without a photographer, though, of course," and this had offended Lucius enough that he only stopped by for a mere three or four hours a day, rather than Narcissa's nine or ten.

And it wasn't just Draco's parents who were there. The house was constantly full, people cramming into the drawing room to sit about and chat, and to laugh at Harry when Draco ordered him around. Even Lucius' scowling face didn't seem to put any of Harry's friends off. They were Draco's friends too now, he realised. At some point down the line, they'd – not forgotten, exactly, who he'd used to be, but had decided to move on. To treat him as the man he was now, rather than dwell on the past. The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there, Draco had murmured when Harry had made an off-hand, uncomfortable remark about things being different to before, somehow. He'd spoiled it, a little, by adding, "Some Muggle crap I read," but the quote resonated with Harry in a way he couldn't entirely explain. Looking back, trying to remember how he'd felt about Draco when they'd been at school, how he'd felt even six months ago, was like watching two people talking in a language he recognised the shape of but didn't fully understand.

Harry didn't even consider that he hadn't, technically, been given the time off work until Robards dropped in unexpectedly. "Uh, sorry, sir," Harry said, and Robards just rolled his eyes and leaned in to whisper, in a carrying voice, "Is that Weasley cowering under the sofa over there?"

Harry looked. Yes, it was. Ron extracted himself with a cheery wave, his face colour-coordinating with his hair. "Just – uh – dropped something," he lied inexpertly. "Good to see you, sir."

Robards seemed to be enjoying himself. He folded his arms and let out a loud, "Hah! Sir, eh? You want to come back to work for me, do you?"

"Noooo," Ron said, and then cleared his throat, sitting up and plucking fluff out of his hair with unshakable dignity. "I mean – no thank you, si— Robar— Er, Gawain."

Robards grinned and then turned back to Harry. "No rush on coming back to work," he said politely. "We'll just carry on, Williamson, Proudfoot, Savage and myself, protecting the whole of England from Dark magic by ourselves until your Malfoy can bring himself to peel his own grapes. No worries."

Harry thought Robards wasn't being entirely sincere.

"Kind of you," Draco said cheerfully from amongst his cushions, and gave Harry's hand a squeeze. If a squeeze could be a snigger, that one was it.