The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 8

Harry sat back up again, irritated with himself. He'd never had a problem sleeping before, even when he'd had a slice of Voldemort in his head, and he didn't see why he had to start now. Maybe a mug of hot . . . something would help him sleep, he thought blearily, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and shoving his feet into his slippers. Not coffee, for obvious reasons, and probably not tea either. Milk? No – there wasn't any. A nice mug of hot . . . water, he concluded, rolling his eyes at himself as he padded down the stairs as quietly as he could, hoping he wouldn't wake up his house guest. He really did need to get some food in, he thought. He was a grown man, with a job and a house of his own. It wasn't beyond him to be domestic, even if most of the time he couldn't be bothered. It was just him; what had been the point?

Downstairs was in darkness, and it was only when he got there that Harry realised he was buggered when it came to a hot mug of anything. Hot would require the kettle – and turning on the kettle would require . . .

"Malfoy!" Harry said, nearly falling over his own feet when he stomped back up a flight of stairs – quietly – and into the living room, to throw himself in frustration on the sofa, and nearly sat down on top of the idiot. It wasn't his fault, though! Malfoy was a dark lump in a dark room, and he shouldn't have even been there in the first place, Harry thought with some heat. He should be in Harry's spare room, tucked up in bed with his vials of poison, or his teddy bear, or whatever embarrassing thing his bag had contained.

In steadying himself, Harry came across warm skin, and he leaped away, uncertain what part of Malfoy he'd actually touched, but, given the way his day had been going, knowing it was bound to be an embarrassing bit. As he did so, the lights in the room flickered on, revealing . . . Malfoy in his pyjamas. They were different pyjamas, Harry realised, looking Malfoy up and down before he could stop himself. The hospital ones had been crisp, white cotton with a faint stripe, as if they'd been mass-bought from the Muggle 1940s. These were . . .

Malfoy almost looked normal, Harry thought, swallowing hard. He was in a short-sleeved dark-green T-shirt, loose and soft, with matching loose bottoms. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, feet bare and tucked up beneath him.

"Bit of an early start, even for you, isn't it?" Malfoy asked. He sounded lifeless. He looked lifeless.

"I thought you were asleep," Harry said redundantly.

Malfoy said nothing, obviously thinking this was too stupid a statement to be acknowledged.

"You look like shit," Harry said.

"Thanks," Malfoy said flatly.

Harry folded his arms, wondering what he was meant to do. It occurred to him that maybe Malfoy didn't fancy falling asleep, given the whole 'asleep for six weeks' business, and he felt like an idiot for not realising it before. He considered, for half a second, whether he should tell Malfoy that, on the off-chance he didn't wake up by himself, he, Harry, would heroically kiss him again to help out, but decided against it. If Malfoy thought the only way he'd wake up again was to get a snog from Harry, Harry thought gloomily, he'd never be able to fall asleep again. Still, he couldn't just leave Malfoy to sit awake by himself, getting greyer and greyer, until he fell into a coma, could he? "Why can't you sleep?" he asked, aware he sounded shirty, but not sure how else to approach this. Was he meant to offer to sing Malfoy a lullaby, or something?

Malfoy shot him a look of unvarnished dislike.

"I can't sleep either!" Harry protested, and went to sit next to Malfoy on the sofa.

For a moment, Malfoy seemed reluctant to budge up, and Harry was about to give him a helpful shove – it was his sofa, and it was big enough for two, it wasn't like he wanted to snuggle or anything – when he swung his legs down off the sofa, and shifted over to give Harry some space, resting his hands on his lap.