A/N: ¡Hola, mis amigos! Before we begin, there is a very heartfelt and serious warning for the grief in this chapter. So, you know, brace yourselves for it. We braced? We good? All right, lovelies, let's do this thing!

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions!"

—William Shakespeare, Hamlet

ALL BUT DEATH

VII

WHEN SORROWS COME

"God, I had forgotten how boring this is," Harry complained, tapping his fingers idly atop the smooth wooden workspace he was leaning against.

Malfoy shot him a sardonic look. "You're not even the one brewing, Potter."

"Yeah, but it's even more boring watching."

"You could always lend a hand," Malfoy suggested, counting stirs as he crumbled some dark claylike substance into the cauldron.

Harry grinned. "Not unless you want that potion five different kinds of fucked."

Zabini laughed at that. "Oh, I don't think it's the potion that Draco wants five different kinds of fucked, Potter."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Think about it for a while," the other man grinned, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Nearby, Malfoy was shooting Zabini a vicious glare, and Harry had no idea what was happening.

"You guys are bloody confusing to be around," Harry muttered, shaking his head.

"Yes, well, Blaise is clearly deranged, pay no attention to him," Malfoy told him firmly, measuring out two spoons' worth of beetle eyes.

Blaise's wicked grin widened. "Hmm, if he's not allowed to pay me any mind, does that mean I can say whatever I please?"

Malfoy's glare deepened. "I am two seconds away from kicking you out of my lab," he warned.

"Empty threats, Draco," Zabini said airily, waving the danger away. "You value my life far too much to take the risk of tossing me out to the mercy of that rabid pack currently roaming the halls."

Harry frowned. "They're just scared," he said quietly. "And they're grieving. Don't judge who they are based on how they act while they're under so much stress and fear."

"Au contraire, Potter," Zabini disagreed, eyes glinting like steel as he surveyed the Auror. "Moments of true fear are precisely when you should most judge a person, because that is when their true character is really revealed. It's not in moments of calm and peace that tell you who a person truly is beneath their skin. We're never most who we are than in the moments of genuine terror when we are reacting on nothing but pure instinct and self-preservation. That is when all of man's worst traits come to light."

Harry stared at him. "Like I said, bloody confusing. Do you lot always talk in such fucking circles?"

"Ignore Blaise," Parkinson said, peering down into the cauldron Malfoy was working at. "He fancies himself far cleverer and more introspective than he really is."

"And ignore Pansy," the dark-skinned man said, leaning back against the wall. "She fancies herself some sort of overlooking voice of reason."

"Ignore them all, Potter," Malfoy cut in, setting aside the stirrer and extinguishing the flame beneath the cauldron. "They all think that what they have to say is far more interesting than it actually is."

"Can't count Tracey and me," Nott said indifferently. "We haven't said anything."

"Thank Merlin for small miracles," Malfoy muttered, bottling the potion and tucking the large flask away in a pocket of his robes.

"Finished, then?" Harry asked, eyeing the pocket Malfoy had just tucked the potion into.

"Yes," Malfoy said, glancing around at the five others lounging against various surfaces of the room, "no thanks to anybody else in this room."

"Oh, did you want us to help?" drawled Zabini. "You should have said something, Draco."

"Come on, then," Harry cut in before Malfoy could respond. "Let's check the library for the others. If they're not there, they're most likely preparing dinner."

"Do we have to eat with them?" Parkinson wondered, wrinkling her nose at the thought. "I don't really fancy being on the receiving end of death threats over dinner, Potter."

"It'll be fine," Harry promised, not quite sure if it actually would be, but none of the Slytherins would be harmed, of that Harry was certain.

"God," Zabini sighed, "who would ever have guessed the day would come when we would be willingly entrusting our lives to a Gryffindor?"

"Half-Slytherin," Harry corrected with a grin.

"Your better half, clearly," Zabini returned, and Harry shook his head in wry amusement.

"Come on then," he said, gesturing for Malfoy to take the lead and falling into step beside him. The trip to the library was short and silent; all Harry could hear were the sounds of breathing and the soft clicking of footsteps atop the cold hard floor. They stopped before a large set of sable-colored doors with tarnished silver handles, looking old and mysterious and almost secretive, somehow. The doors were inlaid with sparkling crystal and jeweled cuts of glass, glinting with light despite the corridor they were stood in having little illumination to offer. Reaching out, Malfoy grasped both handles and pushed the heavy doors open, the hinges creaking as the blond stepped into the room.

Following closely behind, Harry felt his breath catch as he crossed the threshold behind Draco, gazing around in awe. The room was enormous, every single wall covered in overflowing bookshelves that seemed to stretch to the very heavens, and Harry glanced up to find the ceiling covered in what appeared to be abstract artwork, painted in rich, dark tones. Large hanging metal chandeliers peered down at the black leather sofas and emerald-felt armchairs scattered neatly around the room. A heavy wooden ladder on wheels stood perched nearby, standing intimidatingly tall, and Harry wondered what it would be like to climb to the very top of the shelves and gaze down at the room from such a height. Rectangular windows allowed grey light to filter in through the solid walls of novels, falling on square cherry wood tables holding small, shaded lamps.

Swinging his gaze, Harry glanced to the corner to notice a straight wooden staircase leading up to a second level that looked down on them all, the upstairs appearing to be less than half the size of the room they were in. Past the oiled banister of the second-level balcony, Harry caught a glimpse of more towering bookshelves, and he wondered how many books the enormous room held. Against the far wall sat a large wooden fireplace, empty and barren, and it wasn't until that moment that Harry realized how cold the room was. Despite the beauty and the enormity, the library felt strangely still and lifeless, as though the books were holding their breath. The room felt hollow, almost, in a way that Harry could not explain, suddenly feeling tiny and insignificant surrounded by mile-high bookshelves holding countless novels with unknown names staring down at the six of them in absolute indifference. It made Harry sad, and he was not sure why.

"Nobody's here," he said quietly, feeling as though the words had been shouted, almost imagining he could hear them echo back to him in the vast silence—the library felt so lonely.

"We should probably head to the informal dining room, then," Draco spoke just as softly, sounding as though he was worried about disturbing the slumbering books.

"Come on then," Harry gestured, leading the other five from the room. Malfoy took his place by Harry's side as they strolled away from the depressing room, and Harry struggled to find something to say to fill the strange silence. "I think we'll take the second-level," he finally settled on, glancing back to the Slytherins following. "Tonight. The others can all set up downstairs, and the six of us will take the upstairs. Sound good?"

"Fine with me," Zabini said, and Harry noticed that he seemed to relax slightly at Harry's words.

"I'll ward it as well," he added, and Zabini nodded, trading a look with Parkinson, who reached out to grasp his hand. The sight made Harry feel even lonelier than the library, and he quickly turned back around.

oOo

Dinner was a mostly silent affair. When Harry and the other Slytherins had entered the dining room, it was to find everyone already seated and poking miserably at their food. Several glares were cast their way but thankfully nobody said a word. The Slytherins automatically headed to the very end of the table, Harry trailing along behind them, and he wondered just how he had so quickly become a part of their little group. The seat next to Malfoy was left open, and it wasn't until Harry had served himself some food and sat down that he wondered if it had maybe been left open for him specifically, a thought he wasn't quite sure what to make of.

After the quiet meal had finished, Harry and the Slytherins cleaned everything up, taking their time with the dishes and making sure the kitchen was spotless before returning to the dining room, and Harry couldn't help but think that the only reason they had taken their time was because of how much the Slytherins did not want to be around the others at the moment.

The informal dining room was just as silent as when they had left; Harry gazed around at the somber faces, unable to help but wonder if any more would be lost before they were able to find a way out of the house.

Without warning, the lamps were suddenly doused as a dozen lit candles flickered into view, startling everyone in the room. Hermione rose from her seat and gazed around at everyone in quiet speculation. "Some of you suggested we hold a memorial service," she began softly, gaze flicking around the room, "for the three we've lost so far—Hannah, Mandy, and Terry." Heads bowed at her words, a sad, somber air settling over everything. "I think we should start with a moment of silence, and then open the floor for anyone who would like to say something. However," her eyes narrowed as she stared at everyone in turn, "this is a memorial service, so I would ask that everything said here remain respectful and free from accusation. This is not a time for confrontation. Am I understood?" Heads dipped in acknowledgment, and Hermione relaxed. "All right then. A moment's silence, and then whoever would like to start can do so."

Silence fell behind her words like the drawing of a curtain, one that filled the room with a grief so dusty Harry could taste it in his lungs. Heads bowed in quiet reflection, tears dripping into laps like the falling of rain. Beside him, the Slytherins' heads were bent in respect, but Harry could practically feel how stiffly they were holding themselves, almost as though they were expecting an attack at any moment.

After entire minutes had passed, Susan Bones rose slowly to her feet. "Hannah was my best friend," she began, face already wet with tears. "She was the nicest person I've ever met. She never spoke down to anyone or ever said a single negative thing about another person. Once, when I was sick and had to stay in the Hospital Wing for three days, she went around to all the professors and got the homework assignments I had missed, then tracked down people from all of my classes we didn't share together to get their notes. She brought me all the books I would need for the essays and sat with me in the Hospital Wing for hours going over the lessons with me and making sure I understood everything I had missed." Her voice broke as a sob tore from her throat. "We would spend weeks quizzing one another before exams. We ate every single meal at school together. She was the person I sat next to on the boat our very first night of Hogwarts. I was so happy when we both got sorted into Hufflepuff. She was normally so quiet and shy, but she cheered the loudest when I went over to the table and sat next to her. She gave me a hug and told me we were meant to be friends." Susan's voice thickened as the tears fell faster, and Lisa reached out to grip Susan's hand tightly. "She was always talking about f-fate and destiny," she gave a choked laugh, "always reading romance novels and talking about what the future held in store for everybody. She believed that ev-everything always happens for a reason, but…" Susan paused to sob loudly, nearly choking on the force of her tears, "but this w-wasn't meant to happen. None of this was m-meant to happen; my best friend was not meant to be m-m-murdered like that. This was not fate; it wasn't destiny. It wasn't her d-destiny to be killed, and it wasn't my destiny to watch my b-best friend bleed to death r-r-right in front of me! I just want to understand," she whispered, collapsing back into her chair and weeping into her hands. Lisa wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she used her other hand to wipe her own tears from her face. The room fell back into silence, and Harry looked over to the Slytherins to find them grim-faced and pale, Tracey trying rather futilely to hide her red eyes.

"Terry was a good person," a sudden voice said, and everyone looked over to find Michael Corner standing. "He's one of the nicest blokes I've ever met. I'm honestly not sure if I've ever even heard him get into an argument with anybody before. We've been best mates since we were eleven, since the day he sat next to me in Charms. I didn't own a broomstick of my own until I was thirteen, and Terry used to let me have a go on his whenever I wanted. We used to go down to the village together every Hogsmeade weekend. Do you remember, Anthony, how he would always want to go to the quill shop first to look at the stationery?" He gave a broken laugh as Anthony smiled through tear-filled eyes. "Scrivenshaft's was his favorite shop in the whole village. All his pocket money went there, and I sometimes felt like he was the one person keeping them in business. He even used to have different quills for different classes and had to use the right one for the right class or he would go mad. God, he could be so mental about that," Michael chuckled as a tear slid down his face. "He even had quills for essays and separate quills for notes and refused to use them for anything other than what he decided they were meant for. Anthony and I used to switch them around when he wasn't looking to see if he noticed, but he always did. He always knew exactly what quill was meant to be used for what. Stephen," Michael turned to give the other man a watery smile, "do you remember that time in Transfiguration when you asked him if you could borrow one of his million quills and he almost had a mental breakdown about it? I think handing over that quill was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he did, because he couldn't not help people. Do you remember, Anthony, that time in third year when we were stuck outside of the common room for ages because we couldn't answer the door's stupid question? And then Terry comes along and answers it right the first try." He shook his head, smiling sadly. "We'd been out there forever trying to figure it out. And he didn't even take the mickey for how long we'd been stuck out there.

"And I remember one time," Michael continued, the smile dropping from his face, "in seventh year, he stopped a group of students harassing a second-year Slytherin they had cornered, and I remember he got asked why afterwards, and he said that she hadn't been a Slytherin, she had been a child. He said that she wasn't to blame for any of the bad shit that was going on in the school at the time, because she was a child before she was a Slytherin." Michael's eyes flicked to the Slytherins huddled close together at the end of the table. "He was one of those people who couldn't handle fighting; he hated confrontation. All he wanted was for everyone to get along. All he wanted was to help people. I mean, he was in Dumbledore's Army with us, wasn't he?" A shaky laugh left his mouth as he looked at the other members of the D.A., and Harry saw them all smiling through their grief. "He just wanted to help, in any way he could. Terry Boot was a good person," he finished, trying to surreptitiously wipe a tear from his cheek as he sat back down.

One by one, others stood and spoke about the three who had died, some managing to smile through their grief as they spoke of their friends and the memories they had of them, and others unable to continue through their tears. Lisa had to sit back down halfway through her speech about Mandy, so overcome with emotion that she could not speak through the force of her crying. Several of them said nothing, sitting glassy-eyed and tight-mouthed in their seats as they listened to the others.

Then, Malfoy stood up. A hush fell over the entire room as everybody stared at him, some with open hostility, others with curiosity. Harry saw mistrust and suspicion on several faces, along with sorrow and an almost raw, naked hope that Harry had to turn away from, as though they were expecting Malfoy to announce to them that the whole thing had been a joke and that nobody had actually died.

But he didn't.

"I never knew Hannah, Mandy, or Terry," he began, looking down at the table as he spoke. "All of us here were in the same year together, but I would be lying if I said that I ever attempted to reach out to anyone I did not share a House with. I knew them from classes and from the Great Hall, but I don't have a single memory of any of them that I could share." He halted, somehow seeming unaware of the rapt attention he was receiving. "But…" he glanced up to look at Michael, voice as heavy as his gaze, "I do remember the story you told, Michael. About Terry standing up to the others in defense of the Slytherin second-year. I remember hearing her tell that story to several others in the common room the day it happened, and how she had been so grateful that Terry had been there to stop it. She said that she had been so frightened, especially when he started to walk over to them, because she had been so sure that he was going to join the ones harassing her, but he hadn't. He defended her when he didn't have to. When nobody expected him to. And not very many people would have. Not very many people have ever stuck up for us. And I remember sitting there that day in the common room, wondering if I would have stopped to help her, wondering if there had ever been a point in my life when I would have been brave enough or selfless enough to step in front of an angry crowd and tell them that they were wrong. I've never really defended anybody before, let alone a stranger. And I've never, ever been able to forget that story. You were right, Michael, when you said he was a good person." Over in the corner, Harry saw Michael lower his head as his shoulders shook with silent tears.

"The five of us," Draco continued, gesturing to the other four Slytherins seated near him, "invited you all here to try to put to rest this image you have of us as awful people because, whether you believe it or not, we have all changed. We're not who we were back in school. And it was never, ever our intention to put anybody in danger. And I would like to formally apologize to everybody in this room for inadvertently doing so because that is the exact opposite of what I had been hoping to achieve with this party." Several sobs sounded around the room. "And I would like, if I may, to recite a poem for everyone here. This is a poem I read at my father's funeral, and while it is just a poem and nothing more than a collection of words, it did bring me some small level of comfort at the time."

Harry's chest tightened at the final statement; he had known that Lucius Malfoy had died only months after being sentenced to Azkaban, but Harry had never really thought about the fact that Draco had lost his father. Harry had never thought he would be sad at the idea of Lucius Malfoy's death, but somehow, he was.

A throat clearing pulled Harry's attention back into the moment, and he looked over to Draco to find him staring at the far wall, opening his mouth to speak:

"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad."

The final word seemed to echo through the silent room before trailing into silence like the gentle drifting of snow, the quiet seeming to strengthen as Malfoy sat back down. Nobody said a word.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Harry rose. "I know," he began quietly, glancing to Malfoy before looking around the room, "that none of us here are strangers to loss. Not too long ago, fear and grief made up the entire world we lived in, and loss was almost part of our everyday lives. And I know that we're all scared, and I know that we're all grieving. And I know that what's happening is horrible. But I also know that we're strong. We've already survived so much. We made it through the war; we were strong enough to make it through the fear and the pain and the loss. And we're strong enough to make it through this. We'll find a way out of here, we'll find whoever is responsible, and we'll do it for Hannah, Mandy, and Terry. Whoever is doing this won't get away with it, I promise." A ringing silence followed his words, and Harry glanced around to see several people nodding in agreement.

"All right," Hermione said softly as she stood. "Would anybody else care to say anything?" She looked around but nobody spoke up. "Very well, then. So, I would like to go over the plan for tonight. We've decided on the library as the best place to spend the night in. There's plenty of room for all of us and the layout offers enough space to make it easy to keep an eye on everybody. There will always be at least two of us keeping watch over everyone while we sleep. Neville and I will take the first shift," she nodded to Neville, who nodded back, "and then we'll switch Ron out for each of us in turn. Does that sound okay to everyone?"

"What about you, Harry?" Parvati asked, staring at him with wet, reddened eyes.

"I'll be on the second level of the library with the Slytherins," Harry said quietly. "We'll all be in the same room, but the six of us thought it best if we take the upstairs for the night." As he said this, he glanced to Anthony, who narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You're seriously going to continue protecting them over us?" Zacharias drawled, shaking his head in disgust. "Why not defend the ones who actually matter, Potter?"

"I don't think you want us voting on the one we all think matters the least here, Smith," Michael said in a hard voice, glaring at the Hufflepuff.

"It's comments like that, Zacharias," Harry said in a soft voice edged with steel, "that make me find it so necessary to look out for them." Zacharias flushed but Harry continued speaking before the other man had the chance. "But if you would like to join us up on the second level for the night, by all means, do so. Nobody is saying you can't."

At his words, the expressions on the faces of the Slytherins tightened, clearly disagreeing with the statement, but none of them said a word, not even Zacharias, although he did continue to glare down at the table.

"All right then," Harry said to the others. "We're going to all stick together in as large a group as we can from now on, but you and your partner are still responsible for looking out for one another. Nobody goes anywhere alone, understood? Not even the bathroom." He looked at Justin as he said the words, bringing a tinge of red to the man's cheeks, but he stared resolutely back at Harry.

"We should go get set up now then," Hermione spoke up, still on her feet. "If anybody would like to wash up before bed, please do so now, but make sure you have at least one other person with you at all times."

As though her final words had been a stamp of dismissal, everybody rose to their feet and began to make their way from the room, Michael and Anthony in the front. "We know where it is so we can show you lot," Harry heard Michael say, and Hermione and Ron followed behind to oversee everything.

The room was quiet as Harry looked at the five Slytherins still remaining. "We should go as well," Harry said quietly. "We can get set up first and then we can all go wash up as a group, yeah?"

Sighing in agreement, the five Slytherins rose to their feet and began to slowly make their way from the room.

Hanging back just slightly, Harry pulled on Draco's sleeve to slow him down. The blond slanted him a curious look as he and Harry followed behind the others at a distance.

"What is it?" the blond wondered.

"I just…" Harry paused to rake a hand through his hair, feeling well past awkward for what he was about to say. "I just wanted to say…that I'm sorry. About your dad."

Draco's curiosity melted away to be replaced by a look of surprise. "You are?" he breathed, staring at Harry as though trying to pierce skin with his gaze.

"Yeah, I am," Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I know that your dad and I never got along in the past…" he trailed off as Malfoy snorted quietly, "but…he was still your father and I'm sorry that you lost him. I know what it's like to not have a dad, but I don't really know what it's like to have lost one, since I don't remember losing him. And I know that your dad did a lot of bad things,"—Malfoy's gaze dropped to the floor and Harry hurried to continue speaking—"but I also know that you loved him. And I could tell that he loved you. And I figure, you know, that that's what's important in families. So…I'm sorry," he finished lamely, a part of him wanting to take back the entire awkward conversation.

"Thank you," Draco said softly, staring at Harry in a way that made Harry feel oddly vulnerable. "Thank you, Harry."

It wasn't until that moment that Harry realized that the two of them had come to a stop, staring at one another in quiet contemplation. "I really liked that poem you recited," Harry confessed, feeling unable to look away from Draco's grey eyes. "I wouldn't have expected you to be able to recite poetry from memory like that."

A wry grin touched the very corners of Malfoy's mouth. "There is so much you don't know about me, Harry Potter."

"Yeah," Harry said quietly, eyes searching Draco's face. "There is, isn't there?"

The other man's smile widened. "Come on then. The others have gotten too far ahead and Pansy will be upset if we don't keep up with them. That girl is not known for her patience."

Returning the smile, Harry gestured for Draco to lead the way, falling into step beside him as they strode down the corridor together, and Harry was unable to stop himself from peeking glances at the blond every so often, just as he couldn't stop himself from wondering how he could learn more about Draco Malfoy.

oOo

"So, Potter," Zabini said sometime later, the six of them sitting on lumpy beds they had Transfigured from various objects around the library, "on a scale of one to dead, how likely do you think we are to be murdered tonight?"

"Zero," Harry said, sounding much more confident than he felt. If he was being honest with himself, he had no idea what to expect during the night. He had warded the top of the staircase leading to the second-level, and they had all set up their beds in the farthest corner, tucked back behind a large bookcase. But would it be enough? What if someone downstairs was hurt during the night and Harry wasn't there to stop it?

But no, he told himself, Ron, Hemione, and Neville were all there and were all going to be taking it in turns to look over everybody, and Harry trusted their abilities to handle themselves. They would be fine; everybody would be fine. Everybody would make it to see morning—Harry had to believe that.

"We'll be fine," Harry assured the others, "nobody is getting past the wards I put on those stairs. And I placed a spell on the third step to alert me in advance if anybody is coming up. It'll be fine."

The Slytherins seemed to relax slightly at his words, falling quiet as they all settled into bed. Parkinson and Zabini were sharing a mattress, and Harry felt that familiar twinge of loneliness at the way she curled into him and the sight of him wrapping his arm around her in response.

Looking over to Draco, he was surprised to find the blond already staring at him. He was sat on the bed nearest to Harry, wearing a pair of black silk pyjamas that made his pale skin glow like moonlight and his hair shine silver in the flickering candlelight. It also made him look younger and more vulnerable, softer and more approachable in a way that he did not seem during daylight. Harry had never seen the man in any sort of sleepwear before, and it had an oddly disarming effect on him.

Glancing down, he looked at his own borrowed sleepwear that Malfoy had loaned him, a pair of emerald green pyjamas, and Harry wondered if all of Malfoy's nightclothes were silk. He also wondered what Draco thought when he looked at Harry wearing a set of Draco's pyjamas.

"Er, thanks again," Harry said awkwardly, hoping the others could not hear him. "For, you know, letting me borrow these." He gestured down toward the silk sleepwear and saw Malfoy smile in response.

"Sure, Potter," he said just as softly. "Besides, green looks better on you than it does on me."

"I think green looks good on you," Harry blurted, reddening in the very next second as Draco's initial look of surprise melted into a pleased smile. "Er, you know, just—from what I remember from school, and everything…you in Slytherin green, I mean…"

Malfoy's smile widened, faltering as he glanced over his shoulder at the others. Seeming to come to a decision, he moved to sit next to Harry on his mattress, flicking his wand in a complicated privacy ward, one that would allow Harry and Draco to hear any noises beyond it but would not allow anybody to hear what they were saying; Harry was impressed.

"I remember you in Gryffindor red," Draco said almost playfully, in a tone of voice Harry was sure he had never heard from the man before. "Although, if I'm being honest, you really do look better in green. Just one of the many shames about you not being in Slytherin, I suppose."

"Many?" Harry raised one eyebrow at the blond. "What are the others? You know, besides how apparently stunning I look in the house colors."

Malfoy blushed even as he fought an embarrassed smile. "I never said stunning, Potter," he said in a haughty voice. "I said better. You can look bad but still look better than the worst version of yourself, you know."

Harry grinned. "Are you saying that I look bad in green but not as bad as I do in red?"

"I already said that you look good in green once, I won't say it again," Malfoy flushed.

"What if I like hearing it though?" Harry bumped his shoulder, unable to resist teasing the man whilst he was wearing pyjamas and blushing.

"Too bad," was the only response.

"You know," Harry began, "I've never actually worn silk pyjamas before. This is a whole new experience for me."

Draco grinned. "You absolute pleb." Harry chuckled softly as he continued, "But I'm okay with it. I really don't mind being the one to give you new experiences, Potter."

"Harry," Harry corrected automatically before his mind caught up with the speed of his mouth, and he could feel his face scrunch in confusion as he thought back over Malfoy's statement about new experiences. Had he meant it to sound like that? Like some sort of innuendo? Or had it merely been an innocent comment?

"So," Malfoy continued in the same flirty tone, the one that was making Harry's head spin with confusion, "am I allowed to tell people that I was Harry Potter's first?" Harry gaped at him in shock, and Draco laughed as he continued speaking. "To show him the wonders of silk pyjamas, I mean."

"Right," Harry mumbled, feeling his face flush. God, had Malfoy taken private lessons on how to make sexual innuendos, or was Harry just imagining the whole thing? He had always been pants at recognizing when someone was flirting with him. Was that what Malfoy was doing? Or was he simply joking to put Harry at ease? Or was he joking to rile Harry up? God, Harry had no idea!

"What are you thinking?" Malfoy wondered, shifting a centimeter closer. "You look very deep in thought."

"Just trying to figure you out," Harry finally said, searching Draco's face.

Draco smiled. "And what conclusions have you come to so far?"

"Only that I really don't know you even half as well as I thought I did," Harry admitted. "Have you always been such a bloody mystery?"

Malfoy raised a silver eyebrow at him. "Of course," he said smoothly. "I have always been an interesting and intriguing individual, Potter, and it's about time that you finally recognize that."

Harry grinned. "I'm not sure if those are quite the adjectives I would use to describe you, Malfoy, but you're definitely something, I'll give you that."

"Something you find intriguing," Malfoy joked, but Harry didn't think it was meant to be a joke at all. Draco's words were soft and his gaze serious as he studied Harry's face.

Harry nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, I think I might," he said in a quiet voice.

Draco smiled. "I think I might like you being intrigued by me."

Harry smiled back. "I s'pose I won't stop, then."

They stared at one another for several moments before both glancing to the others, who, despite their earlier fear and worry, had all settled down and appeared to be at least attempting to fall asleep.

"Tell me a story, Potter," Malfoy said suddenly, shifting closer.

"A story?" Harry repeated, frowning in confusion. "What, like a bedtime story or something? I don't know any."

"Just tell me what you've been up to these past two years," Draco shrugged. "I let you borrow my pyjamas, Potter, you owe me. And I want a bedtime story."

"Demanding git," Harry grinned, shaking his head but settling more comfortably into his bed as he dutifully gave in to Malfoy's demands and began telling him everything that had happened in the time since leaving school.

At first, Malfoy listened raptly, laughing where appropriate, and asking questions that made Harry feel oddly pleased for some reason, happy that Malfoy was taking such an obvious interest in his life. But after a while, Harry noticed that Malfoy's eyelids were drooping as the laughter and interruptions came less and less frequently. He had been about to suggest that Malfoy go to his own bed so he could sleep when the Slytherin's head suddenly dropped down onto Harry's shoulder, inhalations slow and deep, and it did not take a detective to figure out that Draco was asleep. The sight sent something warm shooting through Harry's chest, making him want to wrap his arms around the sleeping man the same way that Zabini had around Parkinson—protectively. It was a strange thought and Harry did not know what to make of it, but part of him was beginning to recognize that the sort of affection he was discovering he felt for Draco was not exactly simple friendly feelings—it seemed to be deeper than that, and Harry was struggling to wrap his head around that budding realization.

Malfoy shifted in his sleep, curling into Harry's warmth, and the desire to protect Malfoy rose up within him even stronger than before. Flicking his wand, he carefully levitated Malfoy's bed right next to his own, so that if Malfoy turned over at any point in the night, he would not end up rolling off the mattress and onto the floor. Harry did not want to wake him, not even to send him to his own bed. Draco looked so young and peaceful while he slept, and it was an image that Harry knew would stay with him for a very long time. The sight made the brunet want to reach out a finger and stroke Malfoy's cheek, a desire he managed to tamp down before he could give in to it. But the feel of Draco sleeping so trustingly on Harry's shoulder made him smile to himself as he carefully shifted the both of them into a more comfortable position, using his wand to spell the blankets out from beneath them without disturbing the sleeping man.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Harry reached up to brush the hair from Draco's forehead, smiling as he did so and allowing himself, at least in the privacy of his own mind, to admit that Draco Malfoy really was an intriguing mystery.

TBC

p.s. If anyone was wondering, the poem Draco recited is a poem by Christina Rossetti, which is a name that anyone here who has read my previous murder mystery will hopefully recognize. I do so treasure her poetry.