Turn DRARRY

Chapter Eight

There's that strange sound again.

He had heard it some minutes before and had decided it must have been a part of his dream, but now it's back. Unwilling to open his eyes at what feels like a very unsociable hour, he merely groans and clamps his pillow down over his head as the unwelcome squelching sound continues to issue from somewhere close to his left ear.

"Draco," he mumbles through a yawn, "what the fuck are you doing?"

When there's no response after a second or two, Harry lets go of his pillow and stretches out an arm, patting the cold sheets with sleepy fingers. He's alone.

Squelch, squelch, squelch, thrrrrp, goes the noise. Irritated and confused, Harry's eyes snap open and he props himself up on one elbow to see a vibrating, shiny red tomato staring back at him. Quite literally, in fact; this tomato has a single beady eye which is regarding him with reproach.

It always does that when he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning, he thinks, and then his stomach drops through his body, leaving him empty and yet quite sure that he's going to vomit. Barely breathing, he reaches over and whacks the tomato with his palm, cutting it off mid-squelch, then flops onto his back and covers his face with his hands. He doesn't care that he's behaving like a child who doesn't want to be found; he feels like one.

That obnoxious tomato alarm clock was a gift from Al for his last birthday. It goes off at six o'clock every weekday morning so that Harry can drag himself to the office, slog through his paperwork, and have a hope of leaving at a semi-reasonable hour. Heart hammering, Harry looks through the gaps in his fingers at the pitch black sky outside the window. At the clothes thrown on the chair at his bedside, and at the quilt that Molly Weasley made for his and Ginny's twelfth wedding anniversary.

He's back. He thinks. At least, he thinks he knows where he is, but when is fully up for grabs.

"Fucking Boris," he mutters to the ceiling, rubbing his eyes and wondering just what exactly he's supposed to do now. He's been trying so hard not to think about leaving his new life behind that he hasn't allowed himself to consider what he's going to do once the meddling old bugger has quite finished fucking about with him.

And now he's here, in this bedroom that doesn't really feel like his any more, waking up in the middle of the night to spend more time doing a job he hates. And Draco is... oh, god, Draco. Harry closes his eyes again and bites his lip as something tears inside him. His stomach, now apparently back with him, rolls over and over until his eyes are stinging and his mouth is filled with saliva.

This can't be right, he tells himself over and over again. This can't be right.

Overwhelmed, he takes a deep breath, clamps a hand over his mouth and rolls off the edge of the bed and onto his feet in a messy, painful heap. He reaches the bathroom just in time.

**~*~**

Some minutes later, he drags himself to his feet, flushes away the evidence of his loss of control, and shuffles across the cold tiles to the sink, where he splashes his face with water and stares in mute horror at his tired, haggard appearance. His hair is messy, but not in the deliberate, careful way to which he has become accustomed, the way that takes years from his face. It's just everywhere, like he doesn't give a fuck; he needs a shave badly and his eyes are heavy and shadowed.

He wonders if this is what he's always looked like, and how he never noticed. Looks are far from everything, he knows that, but the man staring back at him, as he sighs and grips the edge of the sink, looks sad.

Finding that he can't keep the thought of 'What would Draco say?' out of his head, he turns away from the mirror; the cold, sharp avalanche of emotions and what-nows threatening to race down and bury him is more than he can take right now. He swallows hard, forcing the persistent nausea down, bringing his breathing under control. He's here now, he's... home, he supposes, even though something discordant jars in his chest at the thought, and right now, if he has to stuff all of this crazy into a box and lock it up until he's ready, then that's what he'll have to do.