When Harry entered the bedroom, Draco was already in bed. The blond had lain down facing the wall, his back towards the empty space. Draco pretended to be asleep, but Harry wasn’t fooled. He knew there was no way the grieving Slytherin could have fallen asleep so quickly—not after learning something like that.

Harry moved closer even though he had no plan—no idea what to do. What could he say? He hadn’t felt the pain of losing his parents; he’d been too young. He’d simply lived with their absence all his life. But he keenly remembered losing Sirius. The sharp pain that came with every breath. He could still feel it—even now. Its bite wasn’t as deep anymore, but it was still there. And he knew it would never let go.

Nothing had comforted him last summer. Nothing and no one—until Saturnine had entered his life. Her simple presence—and the fact that she seemed, even slightly, to care about what happened to him—had been like a balm to his gaping wound. Perhaps I could do the same with Draco, he thought as he approached the blond’s bed.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he apologised softly as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

Harry felt like extending a hand. But he wasn’t sure if such intimate comfort would be welcome. They might not be enemies anymore. But they weren’t friends yet—not like he was with Ron or Hermione, or even Luna and Neville.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, for lack of something better to say. “If you need anything, I’m here. I know it’s not much, but I’m here.”

There was no response from the limp blond’s body. Harry heard him sniff beneath the cover—a sign that he was alive, at least. Resigning himself to wait it out, he passed a weary hand over his face, then pushed backwards until the tip of his fingers found his neck. He started massaging the taut muscles he found there, seating himself more comfortably. It would be a long night. But he would stay by Draco’s side—just in case. He could give him that much: what he hadn’t had last summer at the Dursleys. Someone by his side, a reassuring presence—the assurance that he wasn’t alone.

The Slytherin’s breath evened out a short while later as he drifted asleep. Harry remained motionless and considered staying there the entire night. Draco didn’t have nightmares anymore. But there would surely be one tonight. Harry didn’t want him to wake up alone and confused, only to have his memories tumble back down, hitting him like a Swedish Short-Snout on the loose.

His silent vigil was disturbed by the arrival of Saturnine and her brother. The man looked even worse than he had before and as unthreatening as Harry had ever seen him. His Potions professor was but a shadow of his former self: tired, worn-down, on the brink of exhaustion. His haunted, dark eyes desperately sought his godchild’s sleeping form as he approached. The walk from the door to the bed clearly fatigued him. And he clutched at his sister’s supporting arm with trembling fingers to ensure that he stayed upright, his legs having relinquished the fight for the day.

Harry stood up to leave him his spot, and the sour man took it without a word of thanks. Severus Snape only had eyes for Draco; it was as if nothing else in the world mattered other than the boy curled up on the bed ahead of him. The pain in his unusually unguarded face was vibrant—something Harry would never have thought he would witness one day.

Saturnine moved closer to where Harry had repositioned himself by the end of the bed. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him in to lean against her side. Harry went willingly, drawing comfort from her warm presence. She leaned down slightly to place a kiss atop his head, and he snuggled closer, all the while keeping an eye on Draco.

Snape reached out a hand to place it against his godson’s shoulder, just above the spot where the blanket stopped. The man looked minutes away from crying himself—so alive, so full of emotions. Harry hadn’t known he could experience so much, let alone manifest it on the outside for the whole world to see. Or perhaps, he thought, Snape is simply too absorbed in his grief to realise that he isn’t alone in the room.

Harry couldn’t help himself from reaching out to him then. He couldn’t stop his hand from seeking out his professor’s shoulder and gently landing atop it. Snape barely reacted. There was a minute tensing of his muscles beneath Harry’s palm. But it soon vanished under his soothing touch. The young Gryffindor stepped forward without completely releasing Saturnine.

Harry’s right hand was still wrapped around Saturnine’s waist, and Snape’s remained on Draco’s shoulder. At that moment, they were all connected—linked in a chain of strength and support that redistributed the pain along its length to ensure that none of its links would shatter under the pressure.

Just in case his actions didn’t make the message clear enough, Harry said, “I’ll do the best I can to help him. But Draco’s gonna need you, too, sir. He will need you, now more than ever.”

Severus Snape may not have noticed the hand on his shoulder, but he certainly heard the voice in his ears. Twin, dark pools of obsidian narrowed at Harry as a puzzled frown marred the man’s brow. The expression on his face was undecipherable. His lips looked as if they were gearing up for a sneer. But his eyes still pulsed with acute pain. It was hard to reconcile the two emotions.

“He will need you, more than ever,” Harry repeated, holding the man’s gaze and piercing him with a stare of his own—willing him to listen to his words.

Saturnine backed him up. “Harry’s right, Severus. Draco wasn’t doing well before, but this,” she paused to let the words sink in, “this will shatter him. He will need all our help to make it through.”

Harry nodded, feeling a bit of relief when he saw the words sink into his professor’s eyes. And then the man’s attention returned to his godson. His hand hadn’t left Draco’s shoulder, and Harry hadn’t lifted his. The chain remained, and they stayed that way a short while longer, joined in the pain.

It was Saturnine that finally broke the status quo. Both of her hands came up to Harry’s shoulder, and she steered him away, back to his own bed. “Get some sleep now, lad. It’s late,” she instructed. “We all need to rest.”

Harry nodded half-heartedly; he wanted to stay by Draco’s side a short while longer. But he realised that he had no idea what time it was. A glance out the bay window revealed that it was pitch-black outside. Lupin had arrived a little before nine. So, it was time to go to bed, he realised. Feeling tired for the first time that day, he obeyed and let Saturnine guide him to sit on his bed.

He watched as she expertly pulled back the blanket before crouching down by his bed as she waited for him to get in. Harry kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, but he couldn’t muster the energy to do anything else. His sweatpants and t-shirt would have to do for tonight, and he rolled into bed. Saturnine pulled the cover over him, effectively tucking him in. It was something no one had ever done for him. And despite the circumstances, it brought a smile to his face. This was probably something she had never done before. And as their gazes met, he could see she had just come to the same realisation he had. Warmth spread through his belly, and Harry felt a little better suddenly.

“Draco’s going to need you too,” Saturnine told him in hushed tones. “He will need a friend.”

Harry nodded. He could be that; he wanted to. He really wanted to.

Brushing a lock of hair from his face, Saturnine added, “Go to sleep now. But don’t hesitate to come and wake us up if you need to—okay?”

Harry nodded, a silent promise that he would.

“We’ll get through this,” she promised. “Together.” And then she bent down and placed a soft kiss on the side of his temple, and Harry’s eyes fluttered closed.

Saturnine’s warmth receded as she stood back up. He heard her step away to return to her brother’s side. “You, too,” he heard her say. “You need to rest.”

Her brother must not have liked the suggestion, for she felt the need to add, “Draco’s asleep now, Severus. He’s quite safe, but he’ll need us tomorrow when he wakes up. You won’t be much help to him if you’re too tired to stay awake.”

His brother muttered something in return, but Harry was too far away to make it out.

“Come on.” Saturnine’s words were followed by a brush of cloth. And then she said, “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

And Harry heard the professor’s joints crack as he stood, his knees objecting to the change of position—an audible manifestation of his heart. But Saturnine had won the fight, and they slowly walked out of the room.

At a word from the dark-haired witch, the lights went out, and the door closed. Shrouded in darkness, Harry fought the pull of sleep a short while longer. His attention was attuned to the boy on the other side of the room. He listened to his slow breathing, wondering how many more horrors life had in store for them—all the while hoping that their collective quartet would be strong enough to weather them.

***

Breakfast the next morning was a dire affair. It was as dry and stale as Harry’s old bread. And neither of the residents sat at the kitchen table to enjoy it.

In the early hours of the morning, Harry silently let himself out of the bedroom room to creep into the kitchen. He cut four slices of bread, buttering and covering them in raspberry jam—Draco’s favourite. Then he placed their plates on a tray along with two cups of tea, and he levitated the whole set to their shared bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He ate in silence on his bed, gaze lost through the large bay window as he considered the situation. Draco woke sometime later. Without a word, he moved to the small en-suite shower room and stayed there for about half an hour. When he came back out, he wordlessly nibbled at one of the slices of bread that Harry had left on his bedside table. Then he was back inside his bed, his back to the room, asleep once more.

A short while later, Harry distantly heard Saturnine getting up. She made it to the kitchen after a pause outside their bedroom door. He could tell from her gait that she was alone, and she didn’t stay in the kitchen much longer than he had. Just long enough to cobble something up for herself and her brother to eat. And then she was back in the adults’ shared bedroom. Harry figured she was probably going through a morning routine that resembled his. It would be a day spent doing little else than nursing their respective Slytherins.

***

Draco shook himself out of his self-imposed lethargy later that afternoon. Chancing a glance to his right, he saw that Harry was still there. The Gryffindor was seated cross-legged on his bed. He had a quill in his hand and an inkwell precariously balanced on the mattress by his knee. He was working on his homework, it seemed.

Harry hadn’t left him; he’d chosen to work in his bedroom rather than the living room and Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Without the strength to ponder the question further, he pushed it from his mind as he got up. Without a word, he moved to the bathroom again. He wanted another shower even though he’d already had one this morning. He just felt like cleaning something away—he didn’t know what. But whatever it was, he wanted it gone. So, he stood under the scalding spray for as long as he could stand it.

Harry was still there when Draco came out of the en-suite sometime later with his pale skin disturbingly red under his flimsy cotton shirt, and their gazes briefly met. There was concern in his emerald-green eyes—concern for him—and Draco was surprised to see it there. Since when did Harry care what happened to him? Since when did anyone?

That wasn’t fair, he knew. Severus cared, did he not? He had that night when he’d taken care of him after he’d been Crucioed. And he’d come to get him when the Dark Lord kidnapped him. Only Severus hadn’t done or said a thing last night. He had just looked at him like he was disappointed about something. Draco had been Occluding as best he could. But maybe some of his pain had crossed through, and that was what had disappointed his godfather so. Had he thought him weak?

The brown-haired Gryffindor looked like he was about to say something, and Draco fervently wished him to shut up. He didn’t want to hear his platitudes and empty condolences. What good would that do? His mother was still dead. His father was still on the wrong side of the war. He still had no one.

Raising a preemptive palm, Draco muttered, “Don’t bother,” before sitting on his bed.

The uneaten, leftover breakfast plate was gone, he noticed. Harry was back to playing house-elf again and cleaning up after him. The Boy Who Lived, Gryffindor’s hero, Dumbledore’s golden boy had brought him food and taken the dirty dishes away. For some unfathomable reason, Draco felt the corner of his eyes prickle at the thought.

He couldn’t sleep again. Even though he wanted to, even though it was simpler than any other task. He felt energised. His brain needed to engage in something. Deciding to take a page from Harry’s book, he reached for his own Transfiguration manual and flipped it open as he sat down on his bed, mirroring the Gryffindor’s position. It wasn’t perfect, but it beat the alternative: thinking about what had happened. It was easy to lose himself in discourses about weight and mass distribution, to engage his brain in calculations linked to ratio growth and stretching densities of elements.

Harry was busy working on the same essay for Professor McGonagall. Draco had noticed the same manual in his hand. So, when he came upon a passage in the text that he didn’t understand, he asked for the other’s input.

“Listen to this,” he said. “Magic rearranges all of the molecules of a given object, drawing in from the surrounding environment and releasing particles into the atmosphere when necessary, thus forming the thing we desire.” Shaking his head, he ploughed on, haughtiness in full swing. “Bearing that in mind, it is vital to account for weight distribution and mass displacement when casting a spell. As per the laws of quantum physics, the caster must therefore always consider the M-variable of the Principle of Transfiguration.”

Harry gave him a nod of understanding. Encouraged by this, Draco asked, “What does that even mean?”

The Gryffindor’s voice was quiet and measured as he explained the notion in simpler terms that made sense immediately. “When in a china shop, don’t turn a spoon into a Hippogriff,” he explained, a soft smile blooming at the corners of his lips, “unless your Reparo Charms are really good.”

“Why didn’t they write it like that?” he muttered as his gaze returned to the lines of printed text.

“Don’t know—maybe it’s some kind of game to them,” Harry replied, even though Draco’s question had been rhetorical. “Perhaps they write it the simple way, then get bonus points for everything they manage to over-complicate.”

Given some of the manuals they had, the idea didn’t sound that farfetched. Draco couldn’t help but add, “Lockhart must have missed the memo. I think the most complicated word in that batch of drivel of his was ‘stupendously’.”

Harry chuckled loudly at that, and Draco found comfort in their discussion. They spent the rest of the afternoon working on their respective essays, exchanging ideas and answering each other’s questions.