Harry tuned out almost everything Malfoy was saying. The rain was plenty helpful, pulling his mind away from the boring lecture of Malfy introducing every man in the portraits with a proud smile on his lips.

He nodded when necessary, pretending to be excited when Malfoy turned to face him and hummed along when Malfoy hopped onto another topic. He seemed to be doing that a lot, and even Harry who was itching to go back to his assigned guestroom could notice it. The topics brought up had impossible connections, a series of rambling information that was becoming very irritating to hear.

"-but Nicholas Malfoy, knew of course, and that is exactly why he built this library," Malfoy said, pushing open the wooden doors where Harry lifted his eyes, taking his hands out of his pocket when Malfoy opened the door. He'd only seen the library in Diagon Alley, which was gradually rotting away, and no doubt would leak with the current storm the way it was.

But this library was nothing like it.

In fact, the polished wooden high shelves stacked with thick tomes made Harry feel like he was somewhere important, somewhere foreign. Did Alice feel like this, when she entered the Queen's garden? In a foreign place that wasn't hers to own, with a mind she couldn't help but marvel? Harry took a deep breath, rolling his eyes when Malfoy started to speak about another topic (it was mostly history, and Harry would have listened if Malfoy wouldn't keep jumping from point A to B before Harry could make the connection between the two).

"Uh, Malfoy?" Harry asked when they stopped by a couple of armchairs. Malfoy looked up, raising both brows.

"Do you have anything... easy to read."

He didn't answer. Harry shifted on his feet, looking through the floor length windows. They were trimmed with dark grey metal, latching onto the panes like claws. Shuddering, Harry pulled his arm around himself, "If you don't have any..."

"Why aren't you wearing something warmer? Didn't Uncle Sev tell you it'd be cold in the manor?"

Harry dropped his arms, annoyed, "I'll be sure to bring some next time."

Malfoy chuckled, putting his hands on his hips. Of course, he wouldn't be cold. His sweater, thick with wool, dropped down his frame and past his hips. Harry looked down at his shirt, wishing his coat would dry so he could wear it soon.

"Anyway, do you have thin books or not."

"Oh," Malfoy said, looking like he just remembered, "Come along, Patel. I'm sure we'll find something for you yet."

But instead of venturing into the labyrinth of shelves, Malfoy moved towards the doors that let outside the library. Harry followed after some consideration, but none too happily.

"Aren't the books in the library?"

"If you want to lead the search, go ahead," Malfoy waved his hand, then placed it on the rail of the staircase, a thin smile on his face, "I won't come searching for you, at your inevitable disappearance."

Harry chuckled darkly, "I wouldn't want you to."

Malfoy turned on his heel, walking up the steps with Harry a few paces behind. However, he stopped when he heard another shuffle of feet from the entrance hall, and looked down from the rails to whoever was passing by, "White?"

Harry stepped away from the rails, not very keen on being seen by the man.

"Yes, Young Master."

"Retrieve a few children's books from the library. I want them in my room as soon as possible."

"Yes, Young Master."

The shuffling of feet continued, thankfully away from the foot of the stairs. The two boys resumed the climb, and soon enough were standing on the second floor. But instead of turning right, they went left, the portraits getting older and older as they did so.

"How many floors is the building?" Harry asked, following him to another smaller staircase at the end of the hallway.

"Four. Father says Armand Malfoy tried to get five, at least, worthy of the Malfoy name. His architect, of course, refused and-"

'Worthy of the Malfoy name', Harry mocked in his mind as close to Malfoy's tone of voice as possible. Rubbing his arms, Harry looked up at the walls, half-expecting to find portraits of even more angry looking men with very familiar sneering lips. Instead, there were only a few paintings, all of which depicted nature and forests. In places where there weren't any paintings, stood small tables with sculptures or vases on top of them.

Harry made the mistake of asking what the green vase with elaborate patterns was, and refused to listen to another torrent of information.

And that is when he asked himself exactly why he was following Malfoy. He had had enough entertainment for one day, and he wouldn't be getting any books soon, so he could go back to his room and curl under the blankets to get rid of this wretched cold.

So he started to look for an exit, a convenient moment he could use to slip past and hide out the rest of the day in the guestroom.

Malfoy proved to be more trouble than it was worth when he pulled him to his room by the sleeve, closing the door behind them. Harry opened his mouth to protest, almost tripping on his own feet. But the words got caught in his mouth when he had a good look into the room, his mouth hanging open and eyes going wide.

They stood in a big room. A very big room. Harry knew that if you put the whole upper floor of the apothecary into the bedroom, no doubt it would be a perfect fit.

Malfoy had a big four poster of dark oak with green covers. On one side was the biggest wardrobe he had ever seen and on the other, a dresser. That wasn't all, however. Two armchairs were pulled in front of a fireplace, with partially full bookshelves on each side

But that wasn't exactly why Harry was taken aback.

The room was a mess, its floor littered with artistic debris. Discarded paper and half-finished canvases were interspersed with a collection of paints and the occasional brush, allowing for little ease of movement. Wide-eyed, Harry followed Malfoy to the wardrobe to the best of his ability, lifting his knees well above the ground so as to not crush the half-finished portraits. At least, they looked to be half-finished. On some, charcoal sketches were carved into the white of the paper. On others, some colours were thrown on and discarded mid-stroke. On the rare-occasion, a canvas held something entirely clear, but lacked a finishing touch.

Malfoy, it seemed, was something of an artist. Maybe not like the ones who had painted the portraits on the walls, but Harry enjoyed the discarded charcoal sketches nonetheless.

"Do you not like your room clean?"

Malfoy chuckled, throwing open the heavy doors of the wardrobe and practically getting lost in the clothes hanging from the rail.

"It's not that I don't like it," Malfoy said, voice muffled behind the heavy fabric, "Having everything in front of me makes things easier to find."

Harry glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the canvas on the stand, "I think you're right," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself.

Malfoy was still rampaging through the wardrobe, so Harry turned around, starting to circle the drawings. Some showed Malfoy Manor, some held gardens and unfamiliar rooms, but when the inanimate objects started depicting faces instead, that was when things got interesting. Next to the messy sketch of what looked like a castle, were single portraits of people: an old man, a stern looking woman, two large boys standing next to each other, a girl with short black hair, and a dark skinned boy... and many more than he could count. But two of them stood out from the rest, because it was the only person Harry recognised.

The first was Professor Snape, drawn with sharp clumsy lines and showing a smile.

And the next, the closest to being complete, was a not so great painting of a blonde woman with rosy cheeks.

"Is this your mother?" Harry asked not looking at either the portrait or Malfoy, instead picking up the drawing of Professor Snape, a hand brushing over the etched lines, "The one in the portrait?"

A muffled response came from the wardrobe that Harry took as a confirmation.

"Is she, eh, you know…" Harry beat around the subject, trying to choose his words right, "Is she-"

"She's…" Malfoy spoke somewhat disheartedly, "She's alive. Just…very sick."

"Is that why Professor Snape is here? To help her?"

Malfoy sighed, a coat jerking to the side, "Father says doctors are expensive."

"Aren't you...well, you look rich."

"I know," Malfoy said, ending the conversation sharply.

Harry nodded, looking around the rest of the pictures "And the rest?" Harry asked, dropping the drawing of Professor Snape and walking back to the wardrobe, "By the way, are you-"

Harry lifted his head to look at the door, confused when Malfoy stumbled out of the wardrobe at the sound of a knock. His hair stood at odd angles, and the button on his shirt had come undone. But with a quick move, both were fixed and it was now Harry's turn to be pulled behind the doors of the wardrobe.

"Stay here," Malfoy warned, a finger pressed against his lips just before the door closed.

Just before the last light of the room was pulled away.

What terrified him even more than the now blossoming pain on his skin was that he was aware of what was going on. He could hear Uncle Vernon, while also hearing Malfoy and White speaking. Fear wrapped around his chest in a thorned hold while the clothes above him breathed against his neck. Harry closed his eyes, clutching his hands and hoping Uncle Vernon's screaming voice stopped soon.

But even when it did, Harry knew that bitter hold on his chest wouldn't leave for a long time.

The bedroom door clicked shut, followed by rushed footsteps approaching the wardrobe.

Harry pulled his knees towards his chest, huddling further into the coats. The door opened, and Harry wiped his moist eyes, blinking to keep them dry.

"Father hates having anyone in my room, and with you- What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Harry said hoarsely, pushing himself up and wiping his nose. The clothes were still brushing his skin, so Harry stepped forward, but away from the centre of the light, "Can I leave now?"

Malfoy raised a brow. Shrugging, he pushed the books he was holding into Harry's chest before walking past him and digging into the closet, coming back a few minutes later with a sweater.

"Aha!" he excitedly raised it, a very proud smirk on his lips as he looked at the sweater which had the letter 'D' knitted in white over red, "A friend's mother knit this for me on my, well I think second year. D for dihor, not Draco. It's Romanian for ferret. That's the year-"

"Great, thank you," Harry said, grabbing the sweater and rushing towards the door without pause. He still stepped above the pages, but not as carefully as before, and pushed himself out the door while ignoring Malfoy's voice behind him.

But of course, he couldn't ignore White standing at the end of the hallway, instructing a very miserable looking Hall perched on a ladder while he fixed a large portrait on the wall.

Harry turned around to get to the other staircase, but White called for him just as he took a step.

"What are you doing here, boy?"

Harry turned around, biting down on his lip.

White had forsaken his task of instructing Hall, and was slowly approaching him with a sour look on his face. The light coming from behind him cast a cruel shadow over his face, and Harry shrunk back, feet shuffling on the carpet.

"I said, "What are you doing here?". Speak up, you wretched-"

"Draco invited me," Harry said, intentionally using Malfoy's name, "He gave me the books-" he lifted them up, "-and the sweater, because my coat is drying."

White didn't look convinced. In fact, he looked ready to throttle Harry and discard him into the rain. Adjusting his very small spectacles, he joined his hands behind his back, bending down silently as is if to mock him.

"I did not see you there."

"I was in the wardrobe," Harry said firmly, clutching the books in his hands, "You know how he needs everything to be on display to find it."

Harry knew he was walking on thin ice, pretending to know Malfoy more than he actually did. White looked skeptical. He smoothed out his tailcoat, clearing his throat, "I will be asking the young Master to confirm that you haven't stolen anything."

Harry's eyes went wide. His hold over the books tightened, eyes narrowing at White, "I didn't-"

"Move along now, boy," White dismissed him with a hand, walking back to the ladder. Harry, bit down on his lips to stop him from saying something he would regret. Taking a shuddering breath, he walked towards the staircase, rearranging the books in his hands.

"And if you know what's best for you…"

Harry paused by the staircase, not looking behind him.

"You won't show up at the dinner table and ruin the Master's appetite with your appearance."

A feeble nod was all Harry managed before he started sprinting down the stairs, head bowed down. The journey from Malfoy's room to the guest room felt like it had been stretched, so that everytime Harry took a step forward he was pushed three back.

With heavy breaths, he finally arrived at the door, slamming it shut and immediately locking it. The bang dug painfully in his ears. Harry leaned on the door with his back to it, attempting to calm his breathing.

He walked towards the bed, dumped the sweater and books on it, and snatched the covers back to curl underneath the sheets.

The warmth didn't come immediately, not until many minutes had passed under the sheets. Harry blinked rapidly every now and then, shaking his head to stop himself from crying.

He'd been doing that a lot lately, crying or trying to stop himself from crying. His emotions leaked from the body he was supposed to keep them in.

He turned to the other side, facing the window, and slowly unbuttoned his cuffs on the arm he hadn't injured in Diagon Alley. Looking down at his long nail, he was met with the memory of the lady that healed him, the one with the name he couldn't remember.

Harry swallowed thickly, inspecting his chapped fingers.

"Just to distract me," he breathed, closing his eyes, "Just so I calm down."

The sky darkened further. Harry didn't notice. Well, not until he was done. He looked up from the arm, discolored with long lines, and relaxed into the bed, releasing his tense muscles. The burning stayed constant under the fabric, without a trail of blood.

And that made Harry feel proud.

It meant that he was doing well. He wasn't leaving any scars, he wasn't bleeding and he could go on forever without anyone noticing.

Harry pulled the blankets above his chin, sighing in relief when his body began to warm.

Harry didn't realise he had fallen asleep until he heard the loud knocking on the door. Like the day before, he ignored whoever was attempting to wake him and pulled the covers over his head, hoping they would leave him if he ignored them long enough.

They didn't. He should have expected that, as it was Snape behind the door, now calling for him in a muffled voice.

Harry pulled the covers down, shivering at the cold. The weather hadn't changed, the storm persisting despite nightfall. Harry kept his eyes on the window as he stood up, walking around the room in the dark and reached for the sweater dumped on the bed.

He'd have to close the blinds.

Pulling on the sweater, he frowned when it fell past his hips, hanging off his shoulders. Malfoy was tall, but the sweater wasn't new. Hadn't he said-

The knocking continued, more aggressive than before, and Harry dropped the cloth in his hands. Turning the key, he opened the door, stepping back to look at Snape.

"Would you like to explain to me the reason you've failed to show up at dinner?" Snape asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, "Or have me explain to you the trouble your absence has caused?"

Harry couldn't see Snape's face in the dark. That aggravated him, because his voice, dry as usual didn't cross the border into anger, or any emotion really.

Harry hated this. Not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what the other person felt or thought.

Not knowing the unknown.

"I thought he didn't want me there," Harry mumbled, pulling the sweater up by the shoulder, "White said so."

"Of course he doesn't want you at his table, eating the same food as him from plates reserved for his political friends," Snape said, crossing his arms, "But he also doesn't want to see you calm and unbothered."

Harry pulled his sweater up again, "So I should just stay calm?"

"As much as the concept is foreign to you-" Snape said, leaning against the wall and running a hand through his hair, "-You eventually start to notice how their words slowly become unhinged."

"You sound like you've done it before."

"I've tasted the satisfaction of gaining their frustration," Snape said, a little too proud, a smirk in his voice, "Men of his social standing rarely face a situation where their words go to waste. It's remarkable how individual their responses are at being ignored."

"You sound like you've really done it before," Harry said, a grin on his lips. And though he couldn't see Snape in the dark, he wanted to assume that he was doing the same.

Snape sighed, resting the back of his head against the wall, "You're going back to your... previosusly bothersome self."

"The return of your snark hasn't been missed, Professor," Harry said lightly.

There was a pause.

Harry cleared his throat, "I mean you were acting-"

"I wasn't."

"Well, there were some-"

"-Nothing has changed about the way I act."

Well, not anymore. Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. Snape wouldn't ever answer questions, if he was refusing to admit that he'd been acting odd. Maybe it was seeing his... Draco? He'd embraced the boy, as awkward as it had been, and Malfoy had called him uncle.

Harry looked up at the silhouette of Snape. That had to be it.

"You're right, sir," Harry said, shrugging and then having to pull up the fabric, "My mistake."

Snape stood silent far longer than Harry expected. When he did speak, he pushed away from the wall, clearing his throat, "Do you need to eat?"

"Yes."

"Good," Snape said, opening the door, "There's still potatoes left from the garden."

Harry groaned

Of course, Harry couldn't sleep that night. He'd already had his rest, and going to bed seemed impossible. Though Snape wouldn't approve of him leaving the room, he had to walk around.

So he closed the door as softly as he could, still wearing the slippers, and after a small trip to the loo, Harry was wandering aimlessly around the house. He didn't enter any rooms, just walked up and down the corridor of the second floor, wishing he had a candle to read one of the books Malfoy had given him.

At night, the Manor took on a brand new atmosphere. Without the light of day pouring into the grand building's passages, the rain and dark added an eerie touch.

Harry stopped at the staircase, hand on the rails. The stairs reached towards the stone floor, their marble steps like a forbidden path in the twisting woods. So of course Harry stepped down, ignoring the tightness of nerves in his stomach for the excitement in his chest that grew with each step, finally overtaking the nerves altogether.

Harry didn't know why a small thing like climbing down the stairs had made him feel so accomplished. Then again, he didn't know what was so terrifying of going down the stairs either. He turned around, ready to climb up the stairs when something caught his eye.

The door of the drawing room was ajar, and the light of a fire had painted the carpet in its dim colour. Harry immediately panicked, his excitement abandoning him for the voice of reason that screamed at him to return to his room.

But no sound was coming from within the room.

Harry took a hesitant step. Then another. His shaking feet carried him through the narrow corridor, the eyes of the pale-faced portraits seemingly stalking him. Reaching the door, he didn't immediately pull it open, taking caution to listen and peek inside to make sure the room was empty.

It was. So of course Harry, who hadn't gotten a chance to look around with Mr Malfoy a possible threat, entered the room.

Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece with a gilded mirror. On the purple walls, there were even more portraits, making Harry wonder how much family the Malfoys had to fill the house with. Above him, two chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, wide and looming, their ornate jewels glimmering in the firelight. In the corner, behind a long, sleek table was a pipe organ that looked like it hadn't been played in years. But one thing that stood out in the room was the brass candle stand on the table, alive with three small flames.

Harry took a step back. This was a bad idea. Forget Snape, Mr Malfoy, or even White, would definitely butcher him if they found him in a room he was not supposed to be in.

Turning around, he started towards the door, taking small steps, not daring to even disturb the dust. That's when he heard a sound coming from under the floor, and at that moment he chose to dive into the small space under the sofa, somewhat obscured with the elegant silks sprawled over it.

Big mistake, Harry's head kept repeating over and over, eyes shifting from different parts of the floor to find the source of the sound, very very big mistake. Harry shifted his weight, hiding his face behind the long, silk throw.

A smooth creaking noise met Harry's ears. Peeking from behind the fabric, Harry's eyes went wide as a section of the floor opened, revealing Mr Malfoy. He walked up the parts of a staircase Harry could see, stepping over the ledge and closing the open section by pulling the trap-door down.

Harry shrunk behind the fabric once again, putting a hand over his mouth. He might not know what Mr Malfoy was doing exactly, underneath those stairs, but he couldn't push away the idea that if he were caught, Snape wouldn't be able to get him out of Mr Malfoy's wrath.

So he stayed very, very quiet, hand still over his mouth and eyes shut, desperately hoping Mr Malfoy left the room. His arm was starting to become numb, and the dust had brushed his nose, calling on a sneeze which Harry tried to stop by pinching his nose.

It took entirely too long, but Mr Malfoy eventually picked up the candelabra, the sound of his footsteps carrying towards the door.

Harry made the mistake of releasing his breath too soon, his body relaxing.

The light that was with Mr Malfoy cast sudden shadows over the walls as he turned, his

footsteps stopping suddenly.

Harry pressed his hand over his mouth once again, eyes wide. His heart was thumping uncomfortably under him. Mr Malfy made no move, undoubtedly inspecting the room. A few seconds later, he stepped forward, leg brushing the sofa.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, his other hand latching onto his arm in a shaky grip. From what he could hear, Mr Malfoy was using a fire poker, spreading the embers, before scraping the ash and placing it over the wood, extinguishing the flames with the aid of sand.

The light in the room was slowly sucked away along with the heat, now left to the mercy of the candles. The poker clicked against metal, placed back into the stand. The footsteps once again carried out of the room, this time without return.

Harry waited. And waited, long after his breathing calmed. When it remained silent for what had to be the end of an hour, he rolled out from under the sofa, his hands trembling still. Hands balancing him, he walked out of the room, a falter to his step. The rails seemed colder; the portraits' eyes followed him down the hallway, and the door to his room never looked so unwelcome.

His eyes fell on Snape's door. Closed, probably cold. Still more appealing than Harry's. He debated it for a few minutes, walking between the two while biting his lip. Decided, he stepped into his room, grabbing his pillow and blanket and walking out again. Raising his hand, he knocked loosely twice. When no reply came, he knocked a little harder, thrice this time, not expecting a response.

He didn't get any. So sliding down the door, pillow on his back, he wrapped the blanket behind him, wanting to be as close as he could to another person. Even if it was Snape.

He was still surprised when instead of the door, Harry's back met air and the floor after a small click, Snape's body looming upside down on his vision.

"Po- Patel?" Snape said gruffly, his hair standing up in obscure shapes around his head, "What are you doing here?"

"I-" Harry scrambled to his feet lifting the pillow and blanket, hugging them to his chest and hiding his burning cheeks behind them, "-I just… You-You know- This was a bad idea," he turned around, crossing the doorframe. Of course this was a stupid idea. It was stupid he wanted to be with someone. It was stupid he wanted to be comforted by someone. Stupid he wanted to feel protected like a stupid child, and stupid that he expected it from Snape of all-

"Did you have a nightmare?"

Harry paused in the small space between his room and Snape's, hands freezing around the pillow. Snape stepped after him, stopping by the door frame, his voice more lucid by the word.

"I think… I'll go with that, for now," Harry admitted, blinking a few times and exhaling tensely, "I'm sorry to have bothered you, sir."

He continued to his room, reaching a hand to the door.

Snape's hand touched his shoulder above the blanket, "I don't think you'll be able to sleep, in this state."

"No," Harry admitted, voice thick, leaning his head on the door and shaking it, his shoulders tense, "No, I won't."

Without a word, Snape gently pulled him from the door, steering him to the opposite direction. He led him into the room, closing the door behind them. Harry continued after him towards the bed, pulling his blanket down from his shoulder. But when he started to lay it on the floor, Snape caught the end of the fabric.

"Patel, what are you doing?"

Harry looked up, the rain filling the silence he was meant to claim with his words. Between his fingers, the sheet rubbed smoothly against his skin, softer than the blankets back in his room at the apothecary, yet not holding the same comforting smell.

"I didn't think you'd want me on the bed."

"Having you become sick isn't appealing either," Snape said. Taking the unused pillow on the bed, he dropped it over the dresser, gesturing for Harry to put his pillow on the empty side.

Harry did, lying down and pulling his own blanket over him. The other side of the bed dipped, the ruffling of the sheets stopping when the weight on the other end settled down. The memory from the night at the inn came to mind, very similar to the moment they were sharing now. This time, though, it was warmer. The rain was more comforting than before, and he didn't mind Snape's presence as much as he thought he would.

"Are you willing to share what's bothering you?"

"Not yet," Harry mumbled, "Are you?"

Snape didn't speak. He turned around so he was facing Harry's back.

Harry turned around too, glad he couldn't see Snape's face "Will we ever be ready?"

No answer. Harry laughed dryly, turning back around, closing his eyes against the rain.

"Good night, Professor."

"Sleep safely, Ali."