The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 22

Harry woke to the sound of seagulls, shrieking as they wheeled outside the window, the smell of salt strong in his nostrils. He felt exhausted, completely wrung out, even though he'd slept like a log. What time was it anyway? He reached for Draco, and found he wasn't there. Although Draco often wasn't there when Harry woke these days, given how badly he still slept, a tendril of unease slipped in between Harry's ribs and he sat up abruptly, reaching for his glasses. He'd never really pictured his first morning after bonding with someone, but if he ever had, he'd have pictured his loved one right there by his side.

Draco was a contrary wanker, though, Harry tried to think cheerfully, and got out of bed with a stretch, enjoying how free and easy his magic felt as he cast a quick hygiene spell over himself and Summoned some clean clothes. It was a glorious day, bright and warm, and Harry felt some of his tension dissipate as he left the bedroom and padded down the stairs to find Draco. He had his magic back, he had someone to love, he had Draco. He shouldn't complain about a tiny thing like an empty bed when he had so much to be thankful for.

When he got downstairs, however, Draco wasn't obvious. There was a pile of post on the kitchen countertop, some opened, so he'd been there, and some of his books were strewn on a coffee table by an empty teacup. Maybe he'd gone for a walk, Harry thought, frowning at this. For lack of anything else to do, other than rush out of the house and start yelling, which he knew would be ridiculous, he put the kettle on and made himself some coffee.

Some of the mail was for him, including a heavy scroll that bore the mark of Gringotts on its seal. Harry felt another coil of unease as he looked at it, and took a mouth-burning swig of coffee before he broke the seal. It was . . .

Harry dropped the scroll.

What the actual fuck? He began to feel like maybe there were some subtleties to this bonding thing that someone should have warned him about. He . . . should have read up on the ritual, he thought, a sudden headache clawing at his brow. Was he some sort of idiot, to just leave it to Draco to tell him what he needed to know? He'd need to know this, for fuck's sake. Or . . . had Draco thought he'd known that this was what would happen? Draco, Harry thought with horror, probably presumed that, given Harry was over five, he could fucking read.

Harry picked the scroll back up again and read it more carefully. It was even worse the second time around. It was a long – extremely long – list of property. Vaults of money, jewels, heirlooms. Antiques. Rare magical items. Land. Malfoy's fucking Reach. All . . . Harry's. All transferred to him, on the 'happy event of his marriage to Draco Lucius Potter (née Malfoy)'.

Draco Lucius Potter.

"Draco, what the actual fuck is this!" Harry said out loud, in the hope that this might summon forth Draco from some corner of the room, so he could shout at him properly. This was . . . He'd expected a husband, not a . . . well, a pure-blood wife. Traditional, subservient. A chattel, rather than an equal. He hadn't, apparently, just ended the Malfoy line, he'd made Draco a Potter and pinched all his stuff too in one fell swoop. Why the hell hadn't Draco told him that this was what would happen?

Because . . . Harry realised, his stomach dropping, if he'd known, he might have said no to completing the bond. And where was Draco right now? Everything started to tangle in front of Harry's eyes – Draco's amazingly bizarre self-sacrifice, their renewed magic, Draco's current absence. He didn't know what it meant, he only knew that he didn't like it. He started to launch from the beginnings of panic into something more full blown.

Harry went back to the rest of the mail, to riffle through it, searching for clues. The open mail, addressed to Draco, was more of the same – formal notifications from various banks and property companies of the change of ownership, congratulations on his marriage. Magic was really fucking weird Harry thought heavily, his head hurting more at the idea that having a fuck – or, he realised, his forehead now a whole stab of pain, being fucked, he supposed – would trigger all these ancient magics to unleash and strip a pure-blood of everything he owned. Was Draco off sulking somewhere, mad at Harry? It wasn't his bloody fault! And – and Draco, out of anyone, would have known that this was what would happen if they completed the bond. His own parents had gone through the ritual.