Black Sheep

Chapter Eight
In Which There Is Music

HARRY WOKE UP ON THE floor of his own bathroom, the sweetly bitter smell of vomit still in the air. He pried his eyes open, though they seemed insistent upon staying stuck shut. Through the narrow slits of his eyes, shadowed by his thick black lashes, he stared up at the ceiling. There was faint light filtering in through the open door.

Harry was hung over. He'd never been hung over before. It was odd. His head was pounding and felt both swollen and several sizes too small, all at the same time. His mouth was dry and tasted incredibly unpleasant. And his whole body ached from sleeping on the hard, tiled floor. Someone else had been sleeping on that tiled floor with him, though - someone who was responsible for all of this. Where was Malfoy?

Groaning almost inaudibly, Harry slowly began to sit up. His back screamed in protest and he saw black spots dancing in front of his eyes as he inched his way upward. He couldn't immediately get up to his feet, but managed to roll onto his hands and knees, then to grab the edge of the counter to pull himself up to a nearly upright position. He tried to look in the mirror, but realised it was too dark to really see anything. Reaching one fumbling hand behind himself blindly, he managed to flick the power switch and the bright lights bloomed in the small room, illuminating every corner. Harry moaned, as the light seemed to stab straight through his eyes and into his brain like a knife.

He stared at himself in the mirror and thought that, for once, his outside perfectly reflected what he felt inside. His face was white and strained, except for the dark bags under his eyes. The edges of his eyes burned a painful red and around his poisonous green irises the whites of his eyes were hardly white but completely bloodshot. Against his chalky skin, his hair looked completely and flatly black, with none of the hints of brown it sometimes showed. In all, he looked like shit. He grimaced at himself painfully.

Not bothering to even shut the door behind him, he shuffled to the bathtub, pulled his clothes off and left them in a pile at his feet. Then he turned on the shower to blast hot water and laid himself down in his tub, half-reclining against the back as if he were actually taking a bath, and let the steamy water pound down on him, running off his limp body and down the drain. It felt good for a while, but then the heat started to make him feel nauseous again. He stretched out one thin leg, sprinkled with black hairs, to kick at the controls until he managed to knock the shower back off. A thin trail of water continued to dribble from the shower head.

Harry continued to lie in the tub, which didn't get uncomfortably cold, thanks to that damned heating charm of Malfoy's. It was as if the porcelain bathtub were heated from within and he was surrounded by a cocoon of warmth. His eyes were half shuttered again and he drifted in his dazed state until suddenly something soft and fuzzy hit him. He looked down at himself and found that he was now covered loosely in one of his own towels. He looked up to find Malfoy shaking his head in a resigned sort of way.

"Good morning, sunshine," the blond said sarcastically. "Though it's much closer to afternoon than morning."

"Wh - what time is it?" Harry croaked out.

"Half-eleven already. I'd been waiting for you to wake up naturally. Thought I'd let you sleep through as much of the hangover as possible."

Harry sat up and wrapped the towel about himself, asking, "What've you been doing all this time?"

Draco shrugged and looked around the bathroom. "Nothing much."

Harry looked over at him from the corners of his narrowed eyes, but Draco was walking out of the room. As he went, he called over his shoulder, "You'll probably be wanting to put some clothes on."

That seemed a bit much, coming from the drunkard who had got him into this mess. Out of pure contrariness, Harry contemplated just continuing to rot away in the bathtub. But then he forced himself up. Rubbing himself down with the towel, he staggered to his own bedroom to find some fresh clothes. After only five minutes of fighting down nausea, wincing at the sunlight and listening to the blood pounding through the veins in his head, he had managed to pull on a pair of trousers, a baggy jumper and a pair of socks, and to stumble back out to his living room. He was a bit surprised to find Malfoy standing stock still in front of his washing machine.

Easing himself down to perch on the edge of the couch, he called out wearily, "What are you doing now?"

"Figuring out your Muggle machine," came the shocking answer. The blond squatted in front of the machine and carefully turned the dials on the front and then decisively depressed the button marked, "Start." Harry asked mildly from the couch, "Did you add washing detergent?"

The sudden awkward stillness in Malfoy's stance said quite clearly that he had not, and further had not known to. But all he said was, "As if I would - do you know what sort of unnatural chemicals these Muggles use?"

Harry rolled his eyes but certainly didn't care enough to get up again and fix it. He'd do the damned wash again later if he had to. For now, he lowered himself to recline on the couch, closing his eyes in relief. He had only meant to shut out the glaring sunlight that was giving him such an awful headache, but he must have dozed off again, because when he next opened his eyes, there was a blanket draped over him and he could hear a strange humming coming from his kitchen.

"Malfoy?" he mumbled sleepily. The humming stopped. He licked his lips and asked, "Wazzat?"

"Slavonic Dance in E Minor, opus 72, number 2. By Dvorak." The reply came from much closer than he'd expected and he started slightly. Malfoy set a glass of water on the coffee table next to Harry and said imperiously, "Drink your water."

Harry wanted to ask why Malfoy was being so nice to him - covering him with blankets, letting him sleep, giving him water. But his curious mind was on the losing end of the battle; his body had already decided that it would much rather sleep. He managed a couple of deep swigs of water, only dribbling on himself a little. Then the cup was plucked from his loose fingers and as the strains of haunting music started up again, he was asleep.




The next time Harry woke, he did actually feel more human. For the first time all day, he had an appetite and he felt like he could move without wanting to die. He slowly sat up and waited for his body to protest, but it only twinged a bit. Rolling his head about on his neck slowly, he looked around the room. There was no sign of Malfoy.

Pushing himself up stiffly, he noticed the glass of water still sitting on the coffee table. He took it with him as he walked around the couch and into the kitchen. Sipping from the glass, he opened the refrigerator. Inside it, his shelves were rather bare, as usual. But right in the middle, there were two plates which were piled with two very sloppily-made sandwiches. Drinking down the rest of his water, he shut the refrigerator door again, noticing this time the crumpled tally that had been replaced on its front.

Harry walked to the front window of his sitting room and looked out over his garden. He could still see Malfoy's bike out in the lane. And more curiously, he noticed that the places where he seemed to remember being sick the night before had all been washed down with water. He walked into the hall and, sure enough, Draco's shoes were still sitting there next to his own. He glanced down the hall, then stepped toward his extra room, where he'd first left the blond three nights prior.

In the small, empty bedroom, on top of the plain white bed, there was Draco Malfoy, dozing lightly. He was still wearing his trousers and shirt, though they'd got all rucked up. His fine blond hair was sticking to both his own skin and the pillow beneath his head, and one thin white arm was flung across his face. Harry coughed subtly and the blond immediately lowered his arm, looking quite alert.

"You're awake?" he asked in a clear voice.

"I might ask the same," Harry said wryly.

Draco sat up and shoved his hair out of his face, running his fingers through its many tangles. He asked as he got up, "Did you just wake?"

"Yeah. I noticed that you cleaned up outside. And made sandwiches. Er, thanks."

Draco grinned a bit wildly. "Hardly. It's quite amusing for me to be on the other side. Not the one completely hung-over and wanting to die, that is."

Harry stepped back as Malfoy went past him and back into the hall. "Is that why you did it all?"

Smirking over his shoulder, Draco asked, "Do we need our list again?"

"Will you not answer otherwise?"

"Well, there'd be no point to our game otherwise."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine, go on and take off another tick for me."

"You know," Draco said, as he walked into the kitchen, "that now puts you over ten. Which means you've used up over half your questions. I, on the other hand, still have a total excess of questions available to me."

Harry leaned on the counter, watching as Malfoy pulled another pen from his junk drawer and made a mark on the list on the refrigerator. "You know that I'm not at all surprised that you would have memorised the score."

"Nor should you be," Draco agreed. "You wanted to know if I stayed around just because it's entertaining for me not to be the one hung over?" He tilted his head to the side. "Well, it certainly is part of it. It feels... hmm," he paused, seeming at a loss of words, "interesting, I suppose, to take care of someone the way I would like to have been taken care of, all those days I woke up completely miserable and helpless." He grinned and then said cheekily, "And it's a bit like having a pet, I suppose."

Harry eyed the sandwiches that Draco had just pulled from the fridge and asked, "So now you're going to, what, feed your pet and take me for walkies?"

Draco smirked mysteriously. "Only if you're a good boy."

Harry had to keep asking, using up his questions. "What did you do all this time?"

The blond looked at him with a raised brow and pointed out, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than 'all this time.'"

"While I was practically comatose, thanks to your brilliant idea of going to pub," Harry helpfully clarified.

"Ah, that 'all this time.'" He stepped over to make another mark and when he came back, he picked up the two plates of sandwiches and walked them over to the tiny dining table. He set one plate in front of himself and the other across from him, gesturing for Harry to sit. "I made sandwiches, obviously. Which was quite a feat, really, considering the state of your larder. I also checked on you from time to time to make sure you weren't dead. I, of course, searched through all of your most personal belongings and read your very secret diaries-"

Harry had choked and then narrowed his eyes at the blond. He swallowed down his mouthful of sandwich - which wasn't half bad, actually - and said dangerously, "I don't have any diaries, very secret or otherwise."

Draco took a large bite of his own sandwich and grinned, a smear of mustard on his cheek. "A joke, Potter. A joke." He wiped at his cheek, spreading the smudge of yellow mustard more than removing it, but Harry chose not to say anything. Yet. Draco picked up his answer, "Mostly I sat around thinking and dozing. There really isn't much to do in here. No books, no music, nothing but a telly - which I could hardly turn on without risking your precious, drunken sleep."

Harry ignored that jibing tone and asked, "Is that what you do at home, then? Books? Music?"

Malfoy groaned and looked over at their list, which was still stuck to the refrigerator with cellotape. "You would," he complained, "insist on asking more questions, just when I've sat down to eat." He looked at Harry with pathetic eyes and suggested, "Go be a dear and get the list."

Watching as Harry spluttered on his sandwich, Draco further pointed out, "I did make you lunch, after all."

"Yeah, from my own food!"

"Well..." Draco agreed demurely, then looked at the list in the kitchen, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Harry gave a great harrumph, but did get up and bring the list back to the table. He'd had the sense to bring a pen, as well, otherwise he knew Draco would simply ask for that next. But he kept the list in front of himself this time and made a tick under his own 'name', which he then proceeded to cross out. He re-wrote "Harry" at the top of his list, then crossed out "Draco" and replaced it with "Ferret."

Draco watched all this patiently, not saying a word until Harry was finished. "What do I do at home? Well, yes, I do read a lot. Which helps explain why I am not a complete moron like yourself. I read spell books and a lot of history. Also classics. I watch football on the telly when it's on. I'll sometimes watch other programmes, if I'm bored enough - mostly BBC. Oh, and I watch a fair bit of Channel 4."

Harry goggled at him and Draco grinned, explaining, "I find Muggles' explanations of things quite amusing. And some of them do have a good sense of humour." He took another bite of his sandwich and took the time to chew and swallow it before continuing, "Let's see, what else? I sometimes kick the ball around a bit on my own, out on the grounds. I walk a lot. I go out on my bike sometimes, as you know. And I practise piano."

"Piano?" Harry asked blankly.

Draco looked at him tiredly and said, "Even you must know what a piano is, Potter."

Harry flushed. "Of course I know what a piano is!" he insisted hotly. "I was just surprised to hear it!" He took another bite of his sandwich and glared at the blond.

"Over all," Draco summed up, "I don't do a hell of a lot. Obviously - since I did say that I find being with you entertaining. I must not have very high standards."

Harry frowned nastily at him and then suggested, "Show me some time."

"Why should I?"

"Um, how about, 'Because you've been bumming off my generosity for half the week?'"

Malfoy shook his head. "Ah, but my home is my private sanctuary."

Harry stared at him disbelievingly and protested, "More like your private prison, from what you've said! Besides, how is your home any more private than mine?"

"Because I'm rich," came Malfoy's easy answer.

Harry goggled at him disbelievingly and so Malfoy continued, "The rich can pay for their privacy." Then he looked chagrined and looked at the list, muttering, "Oh, bugger, have I given away some answers?"

Stuffing the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, Harry said firmly, "I'll come tomorrow then."

"No."

"I'll be there."

"No."

"I've made up my mind," Harry said with a satisfied almost-smirk.

Draco whined like a little child, "Potter, nooo. It's really boring. You'll regret it, I swear."

Harry grinned, knowing he'd won. "Well, we'll know that for sure tomorrow, won't we?"

Draco was glaring, his icy grey eyes narrowed resentfully at Harry. But somehow, his venom didn't seem sincere - more as if he were playing along in some game. "I could get you drunk again," he suggested. "Then you might forget about this crazy visiting idea."

"No," Harry blurted out quickly, "no more alcohol. Not today. Not for a long time."

An evil sort of twitch curled Draco's pale lips. "I could put anything into your drink if you come to the Manor," he purred dangerously. "Anything."

Harry asked in a bored sort of tone, "Are you threatening to poison me or get me drunk, Malfoy? Not that they mightn't amount to the same thing."

Draco pouted, the smudge of yellow mustard still adding to his expression. "I take it back, Potter. You're no fun at all."

"Malfoy, you've got mustard on your face."