The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 8

Harry didn't sit down. He stared, for a moment feeling so sick that he could almost taste it at the back of his throat.

Malfoy saw where he was looking – of course he saw – and for a moment he, too, looked like he might be sick. But . . . he just sat there, silent and still, not making even the smallest attempt to conceal the faded, dirty stain of the Dark Mark on his bare left arm.

Harry had known that Malfoy had the Mark, of course he had. He'd even seen it, at a distance, during Malfoy's trial. But . . . it came as a shock, regardless, to see the death's head symbol here, in his own home. A place that was meant to be safe. He was safe, he told himself fiercely, glad he'd left his wand on the bedside table upstairs so he couldn't humiliate himself now by trying to use it against Malfoy, the only person who could make his magic actually work. He didn't want to use it against Malfoy, anyway. Malfoy, who, Harry suspected, had wanted the Mark more than anything, until he'd actually got it and realised the price Voldemort wanted him to pay for it.

The silence grew into something thick and textured, and Harry shook himself, trying to feel less like he'd been slapped in the face. It – it wasn't as if Malfoy had expected Harry to come down right now, he reasoned. And if – if – if Malfoy wanted to sit about at night, displaying his Dark Mark to the dust mites and the empty darkness, then that was his business. Harry sat down next to Malfoy, deciding he'd ignore the whole issue entirely, unless Malfoy brought it up first. He really, really hoped Malfoy wouldn't bring it up first.

"Teddy bear not do the trick?" Harry asked, not able to bring himself to look at Malfoy, but still trying to sound cheerful and unaffected.

Malfoy was breathing hard. He swallowed heavily. "No," he said faintly, and then added, his voice uncertain, "thank you."

What was Malfoy thanking him for, Harry thought, feeling slightly hysterical. No, best not inquire. It would only enrage him, no doubt. "Did you even try to sleep?" he asked, collapsing back into the squishy sofa and feeling a bit of a hypocrite.

"No," Malfoy said, as if it was a really stupid question. Harry turned, at that, and Malfoy pulled a face at him and looked as if he wanted to say something, but . . . didn't.

"Can I help?" Harry asked eventually, uncomfortably. "Is there . . . something you need?"

Malfoy continued to look at him, as if he was building up to something. Harry felt himself swallow hard, and Malfoy's eyes dropped, quickly, to watch his Adam's apple bob, before sliding away again.

"What was in the bag?" Harry asked, partly to break the tension, and partly because Malfoy's continuing reticence was making him feel really peculiar.

Malfoy blinked at this, his eyebrows drawing together. "Clean underwear?" he offered. "Clothes? A hairbrush? Which I'd offer to you," he added, "but I suspect it would do you no good. What did you think was in my bag?"

Harry squirmed. "Nothing, I just—"

"I'll tell you what wasn't in my bag," Malfoy said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Inexplicably, my mother failed to pack my personal store of Dreamless Sleep. I haven't slept without it for months. Clearly, she thought your presence would prove so soporific that it would . . ." He trailed off, clearly running out of fake indignation, and winced. Then he raised his chin. "Never mind!" he said, with painful brightness. "I've caught up on my sleep in recent weeks. I'll be fine."

Harry frowned at him. "Do you really think it's a good idea to take a potion to make you go to sleep?" he asked. "Haven't you had enough of that recently?" he continued, in case Malfoy had missed his subtle point.