The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 12

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It turned out it wasn't just dust they had to deal with, after all. The attics, once they'd managed to find them, were infested by Bundimun – small green creatures which looked like tiny patches of grass until they were disturbed, when they sprouted eyes and spat out horrible-smelling liquid. And while Harry hadn't been looking, his half-sized basement Quidditch pitch had become the happy home of thousands of Chizpurfles – tiny fanged crabs, which didn't look too dangerous until Harry waded out into the over-long grass and they remembered they were hungry.

The less said about what been lurking at the bottom of his swimming pool the better, Harry thought, trying not to shudder. It had been a good job he hadn't fancied a midnight swim at any point in the last forever.

All in all, it was a longer day than Harry had expected. More tiring, and yet more satisfying, in a strange way. The hard, physical work made things less awkward between him and Malfoy, although admittedly they were still pretty fucking awkward. Harry was almost glad that when it got dark, and they finally admitted defeat, there was still a lot of work to do. It would give them something to distract themselves with tomorrow as well, he reasoned. Even so. There was still tonight to get through. The night ahead loomed at him, with depressing inevitability.

After some food, however, Malfoy rose from his chair and went to walk out of the room. Harry presumed he was just going to the loo, or something, but when he got to the door he turned and said, very firmly, and equally firmly not looking at Harry's face, "I'll take the guest room tonight. Don't come in."

"Oh," Harry said.

"Promise," Malfoy insisted, and he finally turned his face to look at Harry, his eyes steely.

Harry promised. And then regretted it, with everything he had, when he woke later that night to the house ringing with screams. He leapt out of bed like a shot, dashed into the hallway, his heart jumping out of his chest, and then . . . stopped. He'd promised, hadn't he? Malfoy didn't want him there, he told himself firmly. Malfoy thought his presence, after a nightmare, was worse than the nightmare itself.

Still, Harry's whole body burned with the urge to just storm into Malfoy's room anyway, sod whatever he'd said, and help him. Except . . . was that a selfish urge, he wondered, dithering in the hallway as Malfoy's yells subsided into nothing. Putting his urge to help above Malfoy's feelings about being helped. And . . . how would Harry be able to help, anyway? He was just presuming that his presence would be comforting, in some way, and that was patently not the case. How big-headed was he? Harry felt, for the first time in his life, as if he'd bought into his own fame, that 'Harry Potter' could just swoop into any situation and save the day.

Harry could hear Malfoy crying.

He turned on his heel, walked away from the sound and went back to bed.

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The next morning, Harry felt like he'd wrestled a Hungarian Horntail in the night and come out the loser. He hadn't slept very well, and he'd had dreams he couldn't remember, which had left him feeling disturbed and anxious, as if there was something ominous looming over him he couldn't see, and therefore couldn't fight.

Malfoy didn't look great either, Harry thought as he handed him a glass of juice, even though he was as neatly dressed as ever. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his face was drawn.

"You look worse than I do," Malfoy said, voice flat and unamused as he accepted the juice and sat down, giving a glare at the pile of post still swamping the ground. It had only grown larger in recent days, as mail had poured through the Floo. Congratulatory notes on his marriage, Harry presumed. It made him all the more determined to never, ever open them and take a look.