The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 22

No wonder they hadn't been keen on the bond, Harry realised numbly. It wasn't just the heir thing, after all. He'd stolen their son and their son's inheritance right along with him.

Harry dropped the mail in his hand and dashed through the house, calling for Draco and only hearing his own voice ringing back at him. He tore outside and down the path, but Draco wasn't there either. He was completely alone in Malfoy's Cove, he realised, looking up at the wheeling birds above his head. What the fuck was he going to do now?

Harry tried to breathe, to concentrate. He was an Auror, he'd taken – and passed – exams in Stealth, and Tracking, and Tackling the Scene of the Crime. He could calm down enough to find out what had happened to Draco, and then he would find him, and kill him. And after that – well. He thought he might have to cry down the front of his robes for a bit, before they worked out how they could reverse some of this ridiculousness. Couldn't Harry just give the stuff back? And – and they could be Potter-Malfoy, couldn't they, if Draco wanted? He began to feel hugely angry at Draco, at the idea that Draco would just run off like that, thinking that Harry actively wanted to . . . to own him, Harry thought, feeling a chill down his spine.

He shook himself and told himself firmly that he shouldn't jump to any conclusions, other than the obvious: Draco was a massive jerk. But then he'd already known that, so it was hardly anything new. He entered the large open-plan parlour cum kitchen with fresh eyes, scanning the place for clues. And found something so obvious, he thought he was a complete idiot. There, placed carefully on top of one of Draco's books, was a small envelope, and on it Harry could see his own name written in Draco's careless, messy scrawl.

Harry picked it up with the tips of his finger, as gingerly as if it were a venomous snake, and sat down, slitting the sealed envelope open and pulling out the sheet of cream parchment inside it.

'The sea is like love: You get in, not knowing whether you'll ever come out,' Harry read to his utter infuriation. Harry: Be Head Auror. Live your life. I won't hold you back. – Draco

Of all the . . .

Harry didn't know what to say, or how to feel, when confronted by this pretentious, self-sacrificing claptrap. Didn't Draco know he loved him? That his life was fucking nothing without him in it? What was the point of anything at all without Draco? He was going to rip the poem out of the bloody book, track Draco down and . . . and . . . What was the stupid poem, anyway? Draco had quoted it at him before, Harry realised grimly, wondering if he should have paid more attention.

He flicked through the books on the table, coming across a well-thumbed volume of Muggle poetry, with the corners of pages bent back in several places. He found the poem without effort, and read it, trying not to frown.

The sea is like love
you get in, not knowing whether you'll ever come out.
How many men wasted their youth—
fatal dives, lethal divings
cramps, wells, unseen rocks,
whirlpools, sharks, medusas.
Alas, how can we quit bathing
if just a few get drowned.
Alas, how can we betray the sea
cause it has ways to swallow us.
The sea is like love:
Thousands enjoy it – one has to pay.

It was beautiful, Harry thought, his head hurting. It was meaningful. And it was fucking ridiculous. He tried not to laugh, found he couldn't stop shaking. One has to pay indeed. Was this really happening to him? Had Draco really become a sodding Potter, given Harry all his stuff, and then run away, all because he loved Harry? Harry was never, ever going to let Draco read a book again, let alone Muggle poetry. It clearly sent him deranged.